The Kingdom of Shadows (18 page)

The
Scharführer
, the sergeant in charge of the guards, extended his arm in salute. “All shipments of the subject population have arrived and been accounted for,
Herr Doktor
Ritter.”

The false gypsy hissed in alarm. “It’s
him!
” He clutched his fingers tighter on Pavli’s arm. “He was there, at Auschwitz!” That was the other name, the German one, for the little Silesian village and the camp from which the fellow had been returned. “In Block Ten –”

There wasn’t time to ask what
Block Ten
was. The officer – Pavli could see the insignia of a
Hauptsturmführer SS
on the man’s uniform – acknowledged the guard’s salute with a nod, as he pulled the gloves from his hands. His gaze moved across the crowd behind the fence.

“Line the males up.” The gate swung open to admit the officer. He pointed to the open space a few yards away. “Right there will do nicely.”

The
Scharführer
presented the tally sheet to the officer. “You will find the group to be short one subject, sir. A death occurred during transport; the man was not well.”

“Oh?” The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow. He smiled coldly at the guard. “During transport, you say? How unfortunate. What was done with the subject, upon your learning of his demise?”

“The body was removed –”

“But not yet buried? Good.” The officer gestured with a flick of his hand. “Have it brought inside. We shall waste nothing here. Every one of our guests, breathing or not, is of value.”

They made no effort to lower their voices, to keep the Lazarenes from overhearing. Pavli let himself be herded forward with the other men. The guards kept their rifles slung behind their shoulders as they shoved the group into a rough straight line.

Pavli could see the officer better now. He stood only a few feet away, running a finger across the names on the tally sheet. Shorter than all but one of the guards, with eyes of watery blue socketed in finely wrinkled skin. He had the thin lips of an unloved woman. He didn’t seem to Pavli like a doctor, but these things were hard to tell anymore. In this world, he had already learned that all words were arbitrary; they could easily mean the opposite of what they had meant the day before.

The officer and the
Scharführer
started at the left end of the line. “Your arm,
bitte
.” Before the Lazarene could respond, the
Scharführer
had grabbed the man’s forearm, twisting his palm upward. The tight double row of buttons were torn open, exposing the white skin of the Lazarene’s wrist.

“Ah . . .” The officer breathed a connoisseur’s sigh of appreciation as he looked at the blue-inked tattoo that ran toward the inside crook of the elbow. He reached out a forefinger and traced the length of the representation of Christ’s stigmata. “A fine specimen.” To Pavli, watching from the corner of his eye a few places farther down the line, the officer did seem like a doctor now, examining an interesting skin condition. “Open your shirt.”

The
Scharführer
let the Lazarene male undo the buttons himself.
Herr Doktor
Ritter pushed the cloth aside with one hand. The Lazarene drew in a sharp, involuntary breath as the officer’s fingertips brushed the tattoo running vertically across the ribs.

“Perfect.” Ritter stepped in front of the next in line, who’d already had his shirt pulled open by the
Scharführer
. He gave a cursory glance to the traditional Lazarene marking, then moved on.

When it was Pavli’s turn, the officer’s face darkened into a scowl. “What is this individual doing here? He’s not Lazarene!”

It was the first time he’d ever heard the word spoken by someone not of his blood. He wondered what other secrets were known by this man who was somehow both a doctor and an SS officer.

The
Scharführer
looked confused. “I don’t understand, sir . . .”

“His arm, idiot. Look at his arm!” Ritter grabbed Pavli’s forearm, yanking it up to the sergeant’s baffled inspection.

The white skin, from the delicate veins at the bend of the wrist, up to the elbow, was completely unmarked. There was no tattoo of the Savior’s holy wounds.

“Your instructions were to bring only the members of the Lazarene Community here.” Ritter’s cold voice lashed the other man. “This individual is obviously old enough to have been received his initiation into their faith, yet he does not bear the ritual markings.”

“No, sir . . .” The
Scharführer
mumbled his response.

“Therefore, he cannot be Lazarene, can he?” Ritter slapped the rolled-up tally sheet against his palm in irritation. “I did not anticipate errors cropping up quite so soon. But I suppose it’s inevitable.” He glanced at Pavli, then back to the sergeant. “I suppose it was his eyes that misled you. Well, he’ll have to be taken care of,” said Ritter in a lower voice. “You and your men seem capable of that, at least. You can mark it down as another loss in transport . . .”

A shock of panic hit Pavli, freezing him where he stood. He could see, as though it were happening to someone else, the two guards dragging him out the gate, as they had done with the bandage-swathed broken man, and out to the distant trees. From which they would return by themselves, without him.

Another voice spoke up. “Excuse me,
mein Herr
 . . .”

The
Scharführer
turned on his heel, face furious. “Silence!” He raised his hand to strike the Lazarene who had shown such daring.

Matthi, a few places farther down the line, ignored the
Scharführer
. He looked straight at the SS officer. “But the boy is Lazarene, sir. He is my brother –” His head snapped to one side as the back of the sergeant’s gloved hand hit his jaw.

Another blow was stopped by Ritter grabbing the
Scharführer
’s arm. “Just a moment.” He stepped in front of Matthi. “Your brother? Why hasn’t he been given the markings?”

Though he met Ritter’s gaze without flinching, Matthi hesitated a moment. “He has not been initiated into the Lazarene faith at all. The elders and I thought it best not to do so.”

“Oh?” One of Ritter’s eyebrows lifted. “Why is that?”

Another heartbeat of silence. “What my brother does not know, he cannot be forced to tell.”

That brought a grim half-smile to Ritter’s face. “How clever of you. I had heard rumors that the Lazarenes were aware of my interest in them – but this is the first confirmation I’ve had.”

“We knew nothing like that. But these are times of war. Best to be cautious.”

“Such wisdom.” Ritter nodded in appreciation. “Perhaps that alone explains the survival of your people. But as of now, there is no war for the Lazarenes.” He took a step backward, raising his voice to address the line of males and the huddled group of women and children a few yards away. “You are all under the protection of the
Ahnenerbe
, the department of research into ancestral heritage of the Reich’s
Schützstaffel
. You will come to no harm, provided, of course, that you remain cooperative and follow all orders, precisely as they are given to you.” He made a gesture of welcome, a sweep of one hand that was almost a bow. “You should consider yourselves to be guests, not only of me, but also
Reichsführer SS
Himmler and even the
Führer
himself. I apologize for the inconvenience and discomfort you may have suffered thus far. But I promise that all efforts will be undertaken to make sure that your time spent here will be more congenial.”

Pavli’s companion hazarded a mutter under his breath. “Lying son of a bitch . . .”

“Take them inside.” Ritter handed the tally sheet back to the
Scharführer
. “I’ll inspect the rest of the males later.”

The guards moved the Lazarenes in two groups, the men still separated from the women and small children. Pavli tramped along in the middle, aware of his brother’s presence ahead of him.

“There is your new home.” One of the guards pointed ahead of the group. “As
Herr Doktor
Ritter said –” There was a sour note of sarcasm in the guard’s voice. “Welcome.”

Pavli looked past the shoulders of the other Lazarene men, and saw a four-story building, white with green shutters. It looked like a hospital, a tuberculosis sanitarium or perhaps an asylum for the insane. New-looking iron bars had been welded into place over the windows.

His companion, the false gypsy, was unimpressed. “They can make anything look wonderful,” he whispered. “If they want to.”

Inside the building, there was an odor of carbolic acid. Standing in the entrance hallway with the others, Pavli caught glimpses through partly opened doors, of rooms whose walls and floors were covered with the same pale green tiles, with a tarnished brass drain plate set in the center. Other rooms were filled with wicker-backed wheelchairs, piled into rusting mountains with broken gurney carts.

“Move along.” The guards jostled against the rear of the crowd. “Keep going.”

The interior grew dimmer, farther removed from daylight, as they shuffled down a central corridor. Electric lights had been strung along the ceiling, with black cables snaking overhead. The lights flickered and buzzed; somewhere outside, a petrol-fueled generator chugged steadily. In the cavernous spaces, echoing against the tiled walls, came the distant voices of the women and children, taken to a separate wing of the building.

“Stop here.”

The
Scharführer
had to shout to be heard over the voices of the Lazarene men; they had been put sufficiently at ease by the SS doctor’s assurances to have begun talking among themselves, even joking and laughing.

This room smelled of damp and soap. Along the concrete walls, near the ceiling, were patches of black mold.

“You are to undress,” ordered the
Scharführer
. “Remove all articles of clothing, fold them neatly, then place them on top of your shoes or boots against the wall. Remember where you place your own things – thievery will not be tolerated . . .”

He didn’t hear the rest of the words being barked at the group. His attention was distracted by the false gypsy, the man of warnings and whispers. Pavli looked to his side and saw the fellow panting rapidly, face drained white and eyes widened in sudden fear.

“. . . after washing thoroughly, you will line up
here
, at this spot, for application of the delousing compound . . .”

The false gypsy screamed.

“No!” He propelled himself shoulder-first against the man at his other side, scrabbling with a terrified animal’s clawed fingers to find a way through the press of bodies around him. “He’s lying, they’re all lying –” His words were lost in the rising pitch of his cry.

The crowd of Lazarenes parted, each pushing to get away from the contagion of the fellow’s madness. A hubbub of mounting voices battered against the tile and concrete. Pavli tried to grab the fellow’s arm, to pull him back and clap a hand over his mouth, but he had already broken through. He stumbled onto his knees, then scrambled upright, throwing himself toward the room’s open doorway.