Beyond the Shadow of Night(66)

There, Asher took a few seconds to look around. The edges of the room were piled to head height with clothes. There were pants, jackets, shirts, and dresses—clothes of all sizes. Underwear and footwear too. It was effectively a warehouse or a huge clothing store, with some clothes neatly stacked and some in messy heaps, yet to be sorted. If the clothing they’d moved today belonged to hundreds, there must have been the clothes of many thousands in here already.

A few more trips back and forth were undertaken to move all the clothing, and Asher didn’t want to believe what he was thinking.

Perhaps it was better to just do as he was told, and not to think.

But Asher couldn’t shake off that unpleasant feeling—the one he didn’t want to give in to. Were these people really going to get their clothes back? Surely if they’d all been shot, he would have heard gunshots. But there was nothing—nothing except that maddening throbbing sound.

He felt weak, and had to sit down on one of the smaller piles of clothing.

His darkest thoughts had caught up with his conscious mind and a revelation was occurring, an admission of what he should really have known all along. The thousands of people who had been through the camp—no, hundreds of thousands—were nowhere to be seen or heard.

Now Asher knew. Not the details, not exactly how, but he knew.

As he leaned to his right his hand fell upon something soft. He picked it up.

It was a baby bonnet, knitted from blue wool, with yellow flowers sewn into the edges. He looked down and saw a matching blanket, not much bigger than a handkerchief. It had a Star of David sewn into it.

A guard was shouting, but Asher ignored him and threw the baby bonnet back down as though it were possessed. He suddenly felt very ill and eased himself forward, resting on his knees.

Within a few seconds, a pair of shiny black boots appeared in front of him. He didn’t look up.

“I told you to leave,” the guard said. “Now.”

Asher’s legs wouldn’t move. He continued to stare at the ground. The guard spoke again, this time in Ukrainian. At this, Asher looked up.

“So now you understand?” the man said.

“You’re Ukrainian? So am I. From—”

“Shut up. I don’t care. You get up or you get killed. Three seconds.”

“You would kill a fellow—?”

“Three!”

The muzzle of a rifle appeared, an inch from Asher’s forehead.

“Two!”

By its smell, it had been used recently. Asher stood.

Asher saw it coming, but could do nothing to avoid it. A thump to the head and his world turned upside down. For a second he felt still and settled, his head resting on the ground. Then the blows started on his back. He screamed and curled up into a ball, but the blows continued. One caught his shoulder blade and he felt his skin split. He glanced up, only to meet the butt of the rifle swinging toward him, hitting him full in the face. It was like a hit of ammonia, waking him up all over again, an electric shock to his brain.

“Do as you’re told next time!”

Asher coughed and spat out blood.

“You have one second to stand!”

Somehow Asher stood. It probably took more than a second. Perhaps the guard was feeling generous.

There was no respite, not even a moment to wipe the blood from his face or check the wound on the side of his head. He had to follow the others out of the building.

Now that rhythmic throbbing noise was louder—so loud he could feel the thumping vibration making its way through his feet and up into his head.

And just when he thought he could take no more, the noise stopped.

He strained to listen—to be sure he could no longer hear it. But there was no time for that. They were taken along another path, enclosed in yet more of that barbed wire. Along the way he heard one of the guards say something in German. The other guards laughed.

“What did he say?” Asher heard one Totenjude whisper to another.

“They call this the Himmelstrasse,” was the reply.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s German for ‘the way to heaven.’ It’s a joke.”

Asher stumbled at the thought, but recovered.

At the end of the path they came to a large building—half buried, so it seemed. It had a familiar look to it, just like some of the other buildings. It had three sets of large doors, outside which other Totenjuden were waiting. There was an unpleasant atmosphere—one of silent acceptance. Asher thought of all those people who had stripped naked. He started feeling queasy again.

The men were led to one of the sets of doors, outside of which were piles of excrement. Asher glanced across and saw the same mess outside each door. Normally the stench would have been unbearable, but it could hardly have made this place smell worse.

A guard gave one of the Totenjuden a broom, and he swept the mess away from the door. Asher turned to another and showed him a puzzled frown.

“It’s the women,” the man muttered. “They process the men first, and leave the women and children waiting outside, so they know what’s going to happen to them.”

“Process?” Asher said. “What do you mean by ‘process’?”

Before the man could answer, the doors were opened and clouds of sooty smoke flew out. What Asher saw answered his question.

He blacked out for a second, and staggered as he tried to remain on his feet. It took a few moments for him to regain his composure, to force himself to believe what was in front of his eyes—what was spilling out of the room—and to accept it, for the sake of his life.