The Shadowboxer Read online

  He undid the bundle and displayed the dresses and toys. The SS sergeant inspected the garments with satisfaction. A trio of wigged, painted Bubels were called into the room. Clothing was thrown at them. They disappeared with drunken glee. They returned begowned and began strutting, hands on hips, about the room. The door burst open and a dozen more Bubels flooded through and swarmed over Spangler and the merchandise. One knelt behind him as others unexpectedly pushed. He tumbled back and fell to the floor as a new wave rushed out and piled on him from another direction. He struggled to break free. The SS sergeant grew hysterical and ordered even more Bubels into the melee. Spangler thrashed furiously, but slowly his arms were drawn behind him as small painted boys darted all about biting his lips, his cheeks, his chin, pinching his nose, tugging at his hair. He tried to roll over, but the weight of two dozen stunted castrated forms kept him from doing so. When he felt his trousers being undone he lurched desperately forward and freed one arm. Again he was swarmed over.

  “Erik,” a tiny high-pitched voice whispered into his ear.

  Spangler jerked his head around. All the faces looked the same. The rouged cheeks, the thick lipstick, the heavy green-mascaraed eyes, the white cracked powdered skin all looked alike.

  “Erik,” the tiny voice whispered again. “I know you’ve come to save me, but don’t. Please don’t. The pain is awful, I could never make it out.”

  The SS sergeant tired of the sport. He ordered the Bubels to stop. The children paid no heed. They tore at Spangler more energetically than ever.

  “Erik,” the tiny voice continued, “thank you for coming, but go away. They are waiting for you. They are watching. They think you will raid from the outside. They have questioned me a dozen times, but I have said nothing.”

  The SS sergeant waded into the pile and began pushing and shoving the Bubels off.

  “It is madness here. There is only one man you can trust. He tried to save me. He knows their plans. He will—”

  The sergeant caught Spangler by the wrist and pulled him free of the pile. The children scurried from the room.

  52

  “Nothing has come over. Nothing! Not a single blasted word,” Anvil muttered in frustration. He rose to let Spangler begin his shift at the radio. “First the Russians are splashing in our soup, next they’re nowhere to be found. What’s going on?”

  “Here, read this,” Spangler said, handing him a mimeographed sheet. “The new air-raid regulations.”

  “Eh?” the cook muttered as he looked down at the page. “What does it say? I don’t read German too well.”

  “From all I can make out, we have to wear white armbands if we’re out at night. They’ll tell you the rest back at the barracks.”

  Spangler waited until Anvil had climbed the ladder, dropped the trapdoor after himself and begun piling potato sacks on top of it, before opening Vassili’s locker. Most of the canned goods had been requisitioned by the escape command. Only stamps, sugar, lead piping and a few watches remained. Spangler selected six sections of pipe with pinched ends and brought them back to the radio table. He removed the glass shield from the storm lantern, turned up the blue-white flame and held the pinched end of the first pipe over it. The lead began to soften. Soon the end had melted shut. Two more sections were sealed closed before Spangler had to interrupt his work and snap on the radio.

  Nothing came in on the two designated wavelengths. He switched to other bands without success. After five minutes he snapped off the radio and continued the melting.

  He scooped out a hole under Vassili’s locker, placed the six pipe sections in it and buried them. He took out six of the wristwatches and brought them to the table. He carefully drilled a tiny hole in the center of each crystal with a sharpened fork tine. He reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of metal slivers he had found near the repair shop. From them he fashioned tiny metal poles, which he fitted into the crystal openings until they touched the axis of the watch hands.

  Spangler buried the watches with the pipe sections. He returned to the table and glanced at the clock. The scheduled listening time had been missed. He set the alarm for fifteen minutes, took out his map of Birkenau and flipped it over.

  He began sketching a ground plan of the Bubel billet. He had seen the first floor, so he had no trouble with it. The second floor had to be calculated from the position of the staircase, the footsteps he had heard overhead and the arrangement of the windows. If his appraisal was correct, the second story was divided into three large rooms and one much smaller. The large room in the middle had dark window shades; this was probably where the SS slept. The rooms to the right and left had lace curtains: this was most likely where Jean-Claude and the other Bubels were kept.

  The alarm clock rang. Spangler switched on the radio. Music blared from the speaker. The words were in English.

  “Mairzy Doats and Dozy Doats and liddle lamzy divey,

  A kiddley divey too, wouldn’t you? …”

  The song faded and a voice in Polish rose above it. “… beyond Eblag to the outskirts of Danzig …” The music was gone. The voice had risen almost to a thunder. Spangler reduced the volume. “Below Eblag, Russian forces now hold Lubwawa, Brodnica, Sirpo and Plock. The corridor to Warsaw is still open, and a fresh German relief column is speeding in. Farther to the south fierce fighting still continues at Lodz. Kieclec, Tarnow and Grysbow are now in Russian—Hold, hold a moment! This just in: Warsaw has fallen. I repeat, Warsaw has fallen! An estimated one hundred and fifty thousand German troops have been captured. And this too, this too just handed to me,” the voice shouted. “Oberkommando Wehrmacht has ordered a general retreat from Plock to Nowy Sacz. The Russian Army now holds one third of Poland and is moving forward almost unopposed …”

  Spangler turned down the volume, pulled the message rope and began writing as fast he could. The courier leaned into the bunker and was handed the message.

  Spangler raised the volume. Warsaw was off the air. He dialed the Prague band. Again he was lucky. Reception was strong and clear.

  “… Had the Wehrmacht been able to hold Warsaw another twenty-four hours,” the voice said in Czech, “the northern defense line might have been reinforced and held. Now there is little hope that the half-million troops trapped against the Baltic Sea have any alternative but surrender or total destruction. In central Poland the approaches to Cracow are said …”

  The voice faded under music and static. Again the lyrics were in English.

  “… east, the sun shines west,

  But I know where the sun shines best.

  Oh, Mammy, my liddle Ma-a-ammee,

  I’d walk a million miles

  For one of your smiles,

  My Maaa …”

  The song drifted into silence. Nothing came over the speaker but gentle static.

  A hand reached under Jean-Claude’s dress. He spun away coquettishly and fled to the kitchen. The supper dishes hadn’t been done. The SS sergeant stumbled into the room after him. Jean-Claude escaped through the parlor. Bubels and SS lay drunk on the floor. Some were embracing, others already passed out. His pursuer tripped over a leg, tumbled forward and landed on a half-sober Bubel. A relationship blossomed.

  Jean-Claude climbed the stairs and tiptoed into the SS bedroom. A sergeant lay on his stomach snoring. Jean-Claude quietly closed the door and locked it. He moved silently to the bed, seized the empty whiskey bottle with both hands raised it high and crashed it down onto the German’s head. The snoring stopped.

  Jean-Claude took apart the emergency lamp and poured the kerosene over the bed and the drapes. He lit a match and threw it. Flames flashed up. He seated himself on the night chair and folded his hands in his lap as the fire began to spread.

  53

  Thick layers of blankets had been nailed over the inside window so that the Bourse could continue through the semi-blackout. Five unexpected shipments had arrived that day. Trading was heavier and more frantic than the night before.

  “By
tomorrow,” Tolan said, taking Spangler aside.

  “What by tomorrow?”

  “Vassili. Take care of him before dark tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s an order—and because we may go out tomorrow night. Now go get yourself some sleep.”

  “I can’t. I traded radio shifts with Anvil. I go on after midnight.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  Spangler wandered into the compound and looked out through the camp. Everything was bathed in soft blue light and shadows. Spangler laughed to himself. There had never been shadows like this before, not at Birkenau. It had always been too well lit to go out at night. Now he could get a truck through and no one would notice. But it was too late. His plan was set.

  He walked past the barracks. The sirens began to rise. What dim blue light there was went off. Aircraft engines could be heard in the distance. Then explosions. The raid was brief. The all clear sounded, and the few blue lights were on again.

  “I have it” the helmeted form said from beyond the barbed wire. The guard tossed the package through. “Is it enough?”

  Spangler examined the saltpeter. “It will do.”

  “I think I can get you more tomorrow. Shall I get you more tomorrow?”

  “All right.” Spangler strolled along the fence. The youth paced on the other side. “What are the rumors?”

  “They say that Warsaw has fallen. They say the Russians will soon be at Cracow, and then …”

  “Here at Birkenau?”

  There was no reply.

  “Is the SS preparing to evacuate?” Spangler asked.

  “I don’t—I don’t think so,” the boy said, with a catch in his voice.

  “Then what will become of you and your comrades?”

  Again there was no answer,

  “Why don’t you try to get out before it’s too late?” Spangler suggested.

  “Desert?”

  “Call it what you like, it’s better than letting the Russians take you, isn’t it?”

  “We’re afraid to try.” The boy glanced around furtively. “The SD and the Gestapo are watching us. They won’t let us leave.” He walked a few more paces, again looked around, then pointed to the near spur. “Do you see those railroad cars down this track?” he said under his breath.

  “The three metal passenger coaches?”

  “There are only two now, the red one left early this morning. Those two are SD. Secret police. The officers pretend they’re not, but we’ve seen SD come in and out of them. SD are everywhere in the camp. The Gestapo are waiting on the outside. Two men in my barracks were caught trying to get out earlier. So you see there’s nothing we can do.”

  A whistle sounded. A few blue lights went on over the ramp, but they were of little help. The sidings lay in almost total darkness. Spangler had to strain to see the gates opening under the tower. He didn’t realize that SS were walking along the rails until the train had chugged much farther up the track. But he did realize, that the dimly lighted siding yard had become a perfect avenue for escape.

  Spangler took his shift at the radio and checked the night schedule. Prague and Cracow came on only at hourly intervals this late. He opened Vassili’s locker, brought out a sack of sugar and began measuring it. He filled the cup with one part saltpeter to four parts sugar. Grinding with a knife handle was arduous, but Spangler worked feverishly. By the end of the hour he had pulverized half a paper bag of the mixture.

  He could only get Prague. The Russians were reported to be less than fifteen miles from the city. Half of Poland had now been taken, and the Russian advance was gaining momentum.

  Spangler went back to his grinding. By the time Prague reported that the Russians had been slowed down twenty-five miles east of Cracow he was already filling the lead pipes with the powder.

  The six firing caps he had stolen from the escape-Kommando arsenal were each placed in a pipe and connected with two wires leading out from under the lead plug which sealed each bomb.

  The watches were placed on the table and the crystals taken off. The hour hand on each instrument was removed. More steel plugs were added to each face. On two watches he placed them at thirty minutes after the hour; on two more, at forty minutes after; on the last pair, at fifty minutes after. The crystals were measured, drilled and replaced. Two prongs now rose above each of them. Wires were attached to both prongs and led to dry-cell batteries that Spangler took from the radio repair locker. The wires leading from the bombs were also attached to the batteries. The timing mechanism was complete. The circuit was open. When the metal of the minute hand hit against the metal pole on the watch face, the circuit would be closed. The electricity from the batteries would fire the cap and the bomb would explode.

  When he got back to the Bourse, the tailors were still fashioning escape uniforms. From the outside they looked like usual inmates’ garb, but inside they were triple-lined to provide warmth during the trek to Russian lines. Secret interior pockets would hold the provisions needed.

  The other cooks had just wakened and were dressing in the darkness and leaving to prepare the morning meal when Spangler climbed into his bunk and fell asleep.

  A huge hand seized him by the neck. Spangler grabbed at fingers. The grip could not be broken. He was dragged slowly to the edge of the bed and his head forced around. He stared helplessly into Vassili’s massive face. The flaming eyes bulged. Thick lips moved against Spangler’s ear.

  “Jean-Claude,” came the almost inaudible rasp, “Jean-Claude … has … killed himself.”

  Spangler gazed paralyzed at the giant.

  Vassili nodded sadly. “Killed himself … to protect you, … stupid bastard.”

  The trembling started slowly, then quickly mounted out of control. Tears flooded Spangler’s eyes. A deep agonizing moan rose in his throat, but was silenced as Vassili’s other hand clamped on his mouth. The giant’s grip held tight as Spangler’s body heaved and thrashed. It was many minutes before the torment eased.

  The powerful hand moved from the mouth, lowered below bunk level, returned a moment later to press a cold gun barrel against Spangler’s brow. “Now come, … stupid bastard.… Time to make you a hero.”

  “Who are you?” Spangler finally managed to ask.

  “Stupid bastard,” the laugh-cough spit out sardonically, “I am … the one … who could have helped you. Now come.”

  The massive hand tightened around Spangler’s neck and jerked forward. Spangler crashed to the floor. He was lifted to his feet by the back of his head. Vassili draped a weakening arm around his shoulder.

  “Now … walk me … walk me out,” he rasped, and he slid the gun down under his tunic until it hit Spangler’s ribs.

  The back door pushed open. Step by step they made their way out into the darkness of the paradeground. The cooks saw them and rushed from the kitchen.

  “Tell them …” Vassili breathed out, “tell them—go back.”

  Spangler shouted over his shoulder. The crowd stopped, stepped back a pace or two, then waited.

  Spangler walked the listing hulk farther out into the night. The roll-call area lay behind, a fence fifteen paces ahead.

  “Far enough,” came the rasp.

  Spangler stopped.

  Vassili pushed himself free, staggered to keep his balance, kept the gun hand in his tunic and raised the other in a fist. “Fight … fight me.”

  “You can’t even stand,” Spangler objected.

  “Stupid … stupid bastard—they all watch … they all watch us.” The body rocked forward slightly. “Now hit … hit me.”

  Vassili lunged ineffectually. Spangler tapped him lightly on the chest. The giant fell past and slammed to the ground. He rolled slowly over, raised himself weakly to all fours and finally back to his feet.

  “Stupid bastard …” He hissed as he swayed, “they watch. Give them … what is wanted. Hit me … hard.”

  Again he reeled forward. Spangler had meant the punch to graze the brow.
Vassili had moved his head intentionally. It caught him full face.

  “Good.… Good.…” He struggled and slowly managed to right himself. “Good, stupid bastard. Once again.… Again—harder.”

  Spangler glanced back. The shadowy cluster of cooks stood motionless at the far end of the field. Vassili stumbled into him from the back and spun to the earth. Again he raised himself.

  “Stupid bastard—give them … their show.”

  The pathetic ritual continued. Vassili attacked unsteadily. Spangler tried to avoid hurting him. Strength finally gave out. The fading giant could rise no higher than his knees. “Now … hit … again … and drag me … over there.”

  Spangler blanched.

  “Stupid … stupid bastard, … don’t worry—you murdered me many days ago … murdered the only one … who could help. Hit—drag me by foot …” The gun pointed from under the tunic.

  Spangler threw a light punch. Vassili sprawled on the frozen ground. Spangler seized his foot. He pulled him toward the wire. Fence guards who had been watching the fight from a distance moved even farther away. The cooks, however, had moved forward and now formed a ragged line in the middle of the field.

  “Sit me … sit me up … and let me fall against it,” Vassili said, bringing out the gun and handing it to Spangler.

  “There’s no power,” Spangler said desperately. “The electricity goes off during the blackout. Come on. I’ll take you back. We’ve given them enough of an exhibition for one night.”

  “Sit me up against it. I—I can wait.”

  “No.”

  “Stupid bastard—would you have me die their way?”

  Spangler stiffened, then studied the pleading face. He moved forward, raised Vassili to a sitting position and leaned his back against the fence.

  Vassili’s quaking arm reached out, draped around Spangler’s neck and coaxed him forward. “I … I am not SD … Kuprov—I am Kuprov.… Russian … espionage.… I know who you are.… They don’t … not yet.” The former chief of Russian Counterespionage, Second Sector, smiled bitterly and coughed out a laugh. “You … you get out of here.… Get out on your own.… Don’t trust—keep away from Klempf escape.… Keep away from all of them.… Something behind it … don’t know what … but all wrong.… Locker—look behind locker in cave.… See for self.”