Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:46:06 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 


Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 10/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

                           Chapter Five

      The wind was icy against Bashir's bare skin, and he could no
longer control his shivering.  He tried to keep his voice steady, but
his teeth chattered when he asked, "Why are we here?"

      Without warning, the SS officer--the changeling--swung out
one arm that smashed into Bashir's face, nearly sending him to the
ground.  He caught himself on one knee and braced one arm
against the side of the building.  He had thought his face was
numb, but it still stung from the force of the blow.

      The changeling crouched down beside him, settling down on
the ankles of his shiny black boots.  "Another bit of  advice," he
snickered and then became deadly serious, "know your place.  You
do not ask questions here."  He stood up again.  "You are a Jew."

      "But I'm not Jewish," he said quietly, hoping not to provoke
another 'bit of advice.'

      "And I'm not even *human.*"  His tone had made the word
sound obscene.  "But here," he smiled again, "you wear the stripes,
and I--" he waved his arms with a flourish and changed into a
familiar woman, her long brown hair pinned up beneath the SS
uniform cap, "I can wear anything I want," Lieutenant Whaley's
voice finished.

      *Whaley, of course.*  Bashir almost wanted to ask her how she
had passed the bloodscreening, but, remembering the 'advice' he'd
been given, thought better of it.  Instead he clamped his mouth
shut tight to keep his teeth from chattering and stood up with as
much dignity as he could still muster.

      "If I must be a solid," Whaley was saying, as she watched him
rise, "I really do prefer this form, don't you?"

      Bashir said nothing and tried to ignore the impulse to look her
in the eyes in defiance.

      "I could kill you now," she threatened, "like I killed your
murderer captain.  But I won't, not just yet."

      Something stabbed at Bashir's chest at her words.  Captain
Sisko was dead?  She had killed him.  Or so she said.  *She could
be lying,* he told himself.  *But why would she?  She has all the
power here.*Blockalteste*

      "Well, enough reminiscing," she pronounced and then reformed
again into the male SS officer.  "We should get you processed."

      Bashir stumbled forward in the direction the changeling
indicated, the opposite end of the building.  The men from the
train were slowly coming out of the building.  He scanned the
faces for Andrzej's cousin, but all the men had their heads shaven.
It was nearly impossible to tell any one of them apart.

      Another SS officer spotted them as the changeling pushed
Bashir into the line with the others.  "*Warum hat der immer noch
seine Haare?*" he shouted.

      "*Er ist ein englischer Spion!*" the changeling called back.
"*LaB' ihn seine Haare behalten--und seine Lause auch!*" he
laughed, clipping Bashir hard in the back of the head to prove his
point.

      Several bald heads turned to look at the subject of his comment.
Bashir didn't know why they were staring at him, or what the
changeling had said, but he didn't care, not anymore.  He found
himself not caring much about anything.  He felt as if his whole
life had suddenly come unraveled in one fluid movement.  It felt
like a weight--a million tons--had dropped on him.  He was
literally amazed that his legs still propelled him forward.  The
world had been turned upside down, and he was being crushed
beneath it.  His legs shouldn't still work.


      Max waited in shame for his turn to be shaven.  He was
humiliated, standing before these people naked and powerless.
But more so, he thought of Sophie.  His beautiful, shy Sophie.
Would they shave her, too, and cut her long blond braids? How
could she bear that?  She would bear it, he tried to tell himself,
ignoring the scissors and the man holding them.  It didn't matter
what they did to him.  What was hair anyway?  It would grow
again.  Sophie would think the same.  She would bear it and say it
is nothing, because other things were much more important than
hair and humiliation.  She would bear it, and so he would bear it,
too.  And he would see them again in the camp.

      He was both pushed and pulled with the crowd.  He simply let
them and his legs carry him wherever they were going.  Out into
the cold again.  The air stung him, forced him to pay  attention.
He closed his eyes and tried to see their faces.  Sophie sobbing as
she clung to Hana.  Hana, sweet little, Hana.  She would turn three
next month.  So young and yet she already knew fear and hunger.
It was so wrong.  When she was born, he was so proud.  He would
have given her the world had she but asked for it.  It only stung
more when she had asked for bread and he had none to give.

      He opened his eyes again when he felt the water on his
shoulder.  A shower.  He hadn't had a chance to really bathe in
days or even weeks.  But the water here was scalding.  Some tried
to run back out but were beaten back by the guards.  Max was
sandwiched between too many people and was forced to endure
the burning water.  Then the crowd was pushing and pulling him
again, back out into the cold on the icy camp streets.  Dawn was
just beginning to break, he saw, or was it just the camp's lights
reflected by the smoke that hung over the buildings and smelled
sickening and sweet?

      Someone pushed something at him.  It was one of the camp
uniforms--a striped shirt, a pair of brown pants and a thin coat
marked on the back by a large red patch.  The clothes didn't look
clean, and they didn't fit right, but at least they were something to
wear.  He could cover himself, and they provided some protection
from the cold.  There was a striped cap and some hard wooden
shoes as well.  He dressed quickly and moved on with the crowd,
still in a daze, still waiting for the world to right itself.


      *That's enough of that, Julian,* Bashir scolded himself, trying
to break free of his depression.  *You have to find Vlada.*  It was
not just because of his promise to Andrzej.  Finding Vlada would
give him someone else to worry about.  And that would get his
mind off of his own troubles.  He scanned the men around him
again, but couldn't see the boy.

      The clothes he'd been given did not fit at all right,  and he
thought about what Garak would think of his new fashion
statement.  "Hardly flattering, my dear doctor," he'd say.  And
the vertical blue and gray stripes would only make him look taller
and thinner.  At least it was only the pants.  Still, he sighed at that
thought.  He'd definitely be losing weight on this trip.  The pants
were too short, but he was somewhat more fortunate with the shirt.
It was too big.  He could pull the sleeves down part of the way
over his hands.  It was terribly thin, however, compared with the
pants.  But it felt good to put something on, even if it wasn't clean
and wouldn't keep him warm.

      *You can do this,* Julian, he told himself. *It may be hard, but
you can get through it.  You managed a month with the Jem'Hadar.
Surely you can manage this.  The others will find you.*  But he
was never very good at giving himself pep talks and this time was
no exception.  Would the others find him?  Had the changeling
really killed Sisko?  He sighed and hoped that the changeling had
been lying to break his spirit.  *And you let her do it, too,* he
chided.  He'd done exactly what she wanted, lost his hope.  He
would have to try harder in the future.

      He staggered along with the others, following a guard deeper
into the camp.  He felt dizzy and chalked that up to not having
eaten anything but a few icicles in the last three days--or was it
four?  His jaw ached and he fingered it gently.  Bruised.  From
where the changeling had hit him.  She wasn't going to make
things easy.  And it would be hard enough even if he only had the
Nazis to deal with.

      One of the others, a younger man, maybe Jake's age, was
pushing his way back through the crowd.  It took a moment for
Bashir to recognize that it was Vlada.  His hair was gone and his
eyes were wide and panicked.  Bashir waved him over toward him
and looked around to see if the guards had noticed him.  Vlada
looked relieved to have found him, and Bashir grabbed his arm so
that they wouldn't be separated again.  He looked him over quickly
in the dim light as they walked.  He seemed to be alright, or rather,
no worse off than he was before.

      They were led into another building.  Again, the group slowed
and Bashir couldn't see what was happening at the front.  He heard
some short screams though and muffled crying.  Vlada grew more
afraid and clung to Bashir's arm.  After perhaps half an hour, he
and the boy were at the front.  Several prisoners there were
working with the new arrivals.  One of them handed Vlada a slip
of paper.  Further up, another prisoner was pressing a needle to the
arm of one of the men from the train.  The SS guard, the
changeling, had appeared again, standing not far from that.  He
began to move forward as Bashir was given a similar sheet of
paper.  It was a form of some sort, but Bashir could not read it.

      "You don't read German?" the changeling asked loudly in a
deep accent.  Then he explained each of the lines as Bashir filled
in information, some of which he made up.  He couldn't exactly
say his address was Deep Space Nine after all.  He was pushed
forward to the next table.  Vlada was waiting for him on the other
side, but he got shoved out the door.  Another prisoner at the table
took the card Bashir still held and grabbed his left arm, twisting it
and pushing up the sleeve so that his forearm was bared.  Using
quick motions he began stabbing Bashir with the needle he'd seen
earlier.  Bashir's arm stung with each jab, but he held his tongue,
knowing that there were worse things in this camp than a number
tattooed on his arm.  He was handed a couple of patches with the
same number and four cloth triangles.

      They were led to a long building but were forced to wait
outside of it and lined up in rows of five.  Another prisoner began
to count, in German.  An SS officer, though not the one the
changeling had been impersonating, stood nearby watching.  It
took several minutes for the man to finish, but when he did he
approached the SS and gave him a report of the number of
prisoners.  The wind had picked up, and Bashir noticed that some
of the newcomers had received coats with their clothes.  Both he
and Vlada were forced to do without.

      Finally, the counting done, they were led inside.  This building
was quite different from the others.  There was a walkway down
the middle with what looked like a short, wide, brick wall running
the length of it.  Bashir thought he felt a little heat coming from it.
It was not enough to heat the room.  On either side were wooden
bunks, three high and without mattresses or blankets.  They were
crooked and slanted and didn't look very sturdy.

      One man, a leader of some sort who wore a slightly different
uniform, started pointing to the bunks and counting off five
people.  Bashir and Vlada were allocated to one near the door, a
middle bunk, with three other people who didn't seem to know
each other.  Julian helped Vlada up onto the bunk and then
climbed up himself.  There was barely enough room for all of
them to sit on the planks.  Julian's shoulders brushed the bottom of
the bunk above him.

      Bashir looked at Vlada and sighed again.  "How am I going to
talk to you?" he asked, knowing the boy wouldn't understand.

      Vlada looked back at him blankly and shook his head slightly.
"*Kde je Andrzej?*"


      Bashir caught the name and realized what he must be asking.
Where was his cousin?  But how could he tell Vlada that Andrzej
had been killed?  Even if they'd had a common language between
them, Julian wasn't sure he wanted to be the one to break that to
anyone.

      "*Ty jsi Czech?*" one of the men on the bunk asked excitedly,
grabbing Vlada by the arm.  He was thin and looked to be about
the same age as Bashir was, maybe a little older.  Otherwise there
was little to distinguish the man from any of the others.

      "*Jo,*" Vlada answered, nodding his head.

      The other man looked only slightly relieved.  Something else
was clearly on his mind, and his eyes kept darting back around the
room as he listened to the other conversations going on.  "*Jmenuji
se Max,*" he said finally.  "*Max Zeidl.  Pred valkou jsem zil v
Teplicich.*"

      "*Vlada Sczerbak,*" Vlada replied, and Bashir realized they
were doing introductions.  "*Z Prahy.  A tady je. . . .*"  He
hesitated looking toward Bashir.

      "Julian Bashir," Julian supplied, extending his hand.

      Max took it and shook quickly.  He eyed Bashir for a moment
with a look of both curiosity and a bit of suspicion.  In fact, Bashir
was getting that from a lot of their fellow prisoners.  But Max
turned back to Vlada.  "*Angliczan?*" he asked.

      Vlada nodded.  "*Muj bratranec a ja jsme ho potkali ve vlaku.
Mel na sobe nejak divne obleczeni, ale Andrzej si mysli ze je
doktor.*"

      "*On nemluvi czesky?*"

      Vlada shook his head.  "*Ne.*"

      Max turned back to Bashir, and Bashir wondered what they'd
been talking about.  "*Sprechen Sie deutsch?*" he asked slowly.

      Bashir shook his head.  "No, English."  And then he quickly
added, "and French.  *Parlez-vous francais?*"

      Max dropped his eyes and his shoulders sagged.  "*Nein.*"

      *Great,* Bashir thought, sarcastically.  There was an awkward
silence between them, but he really didn't know what he could do
about it.  Neither of them could understand him.


      Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax rubbed her eyes and then
checked the chronometer.  O800.  Her shift was over.  She yawned
and then checked the computer again.  It was beginning to make
sense of the bits and pieces of data they'd managed to recover from
the debris of the shuttle.  Nothing concrete yet, but she could see
that some of the fragments were from the transporter logs.  If they
could get even partial coordinates from the logs, they would have a
better chance of finding Julian and the other missing crewmen.

      Dax ordered the computer to keep working and to notify her of
any results and then headed for the turbolift.  She sighed as the lift
began to move.  She knew she cared for Julian and treasured his
friendship, but she was still surprised at how much she missed him
now.  He'd been away before on various missions, some of them
quite dangerous.  He'd even once been reported dead.  She had
attended his memorial service.  She had thought she would never
miss him as much as then.  But she did now.

      She missed him more.  He always had a bright smile for her,
was always kind.  He would go out of his way for her, do anything
for her.  He had even risked his life to save her.  Not every
friend would do that.  And she knew he would do that for just
about anyone.  He was a special kind of person.  She'd known that
for some time now.  He was intelligent and handsome, seemingly
arrogant to those who didn't know him and yet insecure, naive at
times and wise at others.  He was sweet and kind, almost fragile.
And yet he was strong and determined and very protective of
patients, fearless when they were threatened.  He was, in many
ways, a contradiction.  She liked that about him.

      The turbolift stopped and she stepped out, passing other
crewmen just coming on to their shifts.  She yawned again.
Continuous double shifts were hard on a body.  And the days were
shorter here, which didn't help.  She had gotten used to the
twenty-six hour days on Deep Space Nine.  Twenty-four didn't
leave much time for anything but sleeping and eating in between
sixteen hours of duty.

      The days went by faster, and she wasn't quite sure if that was a
good thing or not.  On the one hand, it kept her busy, leaving less
time to worry and think about Julian and the others.  And it would
be that much sooner to the day when the *Defiant* was repaired.
But she also knew that it was still the same amount of time,
whether or not it was the same number of days that went by.  Each
day was one more that Julian was not on board the ship.  He'd been
gone more than three days already.

      And each day was another day that the changeling could be
tampering with Earth's history, and thereby, the Federation's.  She
had talked with Ensign Thomas about this time.  This was, in
many ways, a pivotal point in Earth's history.  A massive planetary
war was being fought.  And when it ended the balance of power
would have shifted from Europe to North America and the Soviet
Union.  And within just a few years, the first nuclear weapon
would be released ushering in a nuclear age.

      As bad as it all sounded, Dax knew that it would give way to
better things.  Zephram Cochran would use a discarded nuclear
weapon to invent the first warp ship.  And the Federation would
spring from that little point in history.  She had seen it many times
in her eight lives' worth of memories.  The good is tied up with the
bad in a delicate balance.  It would not take much for the
changeling to tip the scales one way or the other.

      Her quarters were dark when she reached them, and she didn't
bother turning on the lights.  She slipped off the outer layers of her
uniform and then laid down on the lower bunk.  She ordered the
computer to wake her at 1500 hours and fell asleep.

      The leader, the one in the different uniform, was speaking now.
Or rather, he was yelling.  He seemed to be engaged in an angry
tirade, and he beat upon the bunks with a small hard rubber club as
he walked past them.  But, of course, Julian Bashir could
understand very little of what was being said.  He caught a few
words, simply because of the similarity of some German words to
their English counterparts.  "*Konzentrationslager*" was
"concentration camp".  He already knew the name, so "Auschwitz"
was familiar to him, too, though the man said it in combination
with another word he didn't know, "Birkenau."  "*Morgen*" and
"*Nacht*" he understood as "morning" and "night", but could not
understand what was said about them.

      All of the prisoners sat listening in stunned silence.  Their eyes
followed the leader, who had identified himself as a
*Blockalteste*, as he paced disgustedly from one end of the long
building to the other.  Bashir counted the bunks as he passed and
was shocked to realize that there had to be over four hundred men
in just this one block.  How many other blocks were there?  The
scale of the camp staggered him.

      Max listened intently to the man, so intently that Bashir thought
he might fall over the end of the bunk and land right on the floor in
front of him.  But instead, he seemed frozen there,  precariously
perched over the narrow walkway.

      One man, toward the center of the row of bunks on the opposite
side of the building interrupted the *Blockalteste*, standing up in
front of him in a daring display of dignity and courage.  "*Wo sind
unsere Familien?*" he asked.

      Julian recognized the reference to family.  Max moved then,
and peered farther out into the walkway, obviously very interested
in the answer.  Vlada, too, moved farther toward the end of the
bunk.

      In answer the *Blockalteste* raised his club and smashed it
down on the man's shoulder, bringing him instantly to his knees.
Three more blows left him cringing on the floor.  Bashir watched
in horror.  The *Blockalteste* laughed in the face of his own
cruelty.  "*Hast du den Rauch nicht gesehen?*" he asked loudly,
kicking the fallen man in the side.  "*Da ist deine familie und da
wirst du auch bald landen!*"

      No one dared to move to help the man.  Bashir had to fight his
own instincts to stop himself from jumping down and moving to
his side.  Max though, had gone pale, and he mumbled something
over and over.  "*Was meint er bloss?  Rauch?  Was meint er
damit?*"

      "*Co rikal?*" Vlada asked, tugging on Max's sleeve.

      "*Rikal, ze vsichni skonczime v kouri.*" Max translated,
though he still only whispered and his eyes never met Vlada's.
"*Jak je to mozne? Jak muzou byt v kouri?*"  The skin around his
eyes began to swell and then a tear fell down his face.  And his
breathing became more rapid.

      *He knows,* Julian thought.  He wondered if the
*Blockalteste* had shouted it out then, told them that their
families had been killed, but the rest of the block seemed to be lost
still in shock and confusion.  Vlada didn't show any signs of the
shock and grief that were becoming more and more apparent in
Max's face.

      Max switched from Czech back to German, still muttering to
himself, only now he was becoming louder.  The *Blockalteste*
had moved to the far end of the building.  "*Hat noch jemand
irgendetwas zu sagen?*" he bellowed.  His stance conveyed a
definite threat.

      "*Wie konnen sie im Rauch sein?*" Max asked, working
himself into a panic.  "*Wo sind meine Sophie und meine kleine
Hana?  Wie knnen sie im Rauch sein?*"

      "*Ticho!*" Vlada whispered urgently.

      Max ignored him and kept repeating himself.  He fidgeted now
and Bashir thought perhaps he would jump down from the bunk.
He looked down the walkway, hoping the *Blockalteste* hadn't
heard.  The man was making his way again to their end of the
barracks, still thumping his club against the wooden beams of the
bunks.  The man he'd beaten still lay motionless on the floor.  The
*Blockalteste* stepped over him as if he were no more than a
wrinkle in a carpet.

      "*Wie konnen sie im Rauch sein?*" Max challenged.  The
*Blockalteste* stopped in his tracks.

      *He's going to get himself killed,* Bashir thought and he knew
he couldn't sit by and watch it happen.

      "*Wie--*" Max began again, but Bashir moved quickly to get
behind him.  He slapped a hand over Max's mouth and pulled him
back from the edge of the bunk.  Max struggled and tried to kick
his feet, but Vlada threw himself over his legs.  Bashir was
thankful for the help.  He kept a close watch on the *Blockalteste*.
He didn't seem to know where the outburst had come from and had
resumed his tirade.

      Max's hands clawed at Bashir's, but Julian refused to let him go.
Max's body was rigid as he struggled, but then he seemed to melt,
relaxing his muscles and falling into Bashir.  His body convulsed
then, and Bashir realized he was sobbing.  He released his hold on
Max's face and wrapped his arms around him, holding him while
he wept.  *Sophia and Hannah, he'd said,* Bashir recalled.  *Wife
and child, perhaps?  Or sisters.*

      He glanced at Vlada, wondering if he now understood, too,
where his cousin had gone.  Vlada still held Max's legs which had
given up kicking him away.  He was doubled up with his face
buried against Max's knees.  He knew, too.

                            *********

      "Captain!" Kira said, her voice carrying excitement and
urgency.  She turned to face him, nearly beaming.  "I've got a
signal."

      The whole bridge erupted in a cheer, and Sisko found himself
smiling as well, though he knew that any celebrations were
premature.  Still after six days of searching, it was good news.
"On screen, Major."

      The viewscreen came to life.  This time there was no need for
the computer to enhance the image.  O'Brien and his teams had
managed to get the starboard sensors up to half-strength.  The
viewscreen showed a much wider area than before, and Sisko
could clearly identify the area shown as the western coast of South
America, bordered on one side by the Pacific and the other by the
Andes Mountains.

      One pinpoint of light glowed toward the bottom edge of the
screen.  As they watched another light appeared not far from the
first and then another nearer the coast.  The only problem was,
Sisko had studied his geography.  The three signals were located in
a desert.  The Atacama to be precise, and it was still just as arid in
the twenty-fourth century as it was in the twentieth.

      "Communications?" Sisko asked, knowing the answer, but
hoping that perhaps he had grossly underestimated his crew.

      "Not yet, Benjamin," Dax replied sadly.

      He knew the transporter was still out as well.  "Well, let's try
and keep some sort of lock on them," Sisko decided.  "As soon as
we've got communications, we want to get word to them.  Can we
tell who they are?"

      Kira ran her hands over her controls.  "Crewmen Wieland," she
read, "Armand, and Keller."


      Sisko lowered his voice, knowing that the next question he
asked wouldn't be taken well by his crew.  "Lifesigns?"

      Kira shook her head.  "Sensors are just too weak to make that
out at this range."

      Sisko sighed.  At least that wasn't bad news.  It was possible to
survive in the desert, just not easy.  And finding them told him
something else as well.  "Major, let's not limit the search to
populated areas.  We'll need to scan every inch of the planet's
surface."

      The noise level on the bridge had dropped considerably, and
Sisko knew morale was being tested by the long shifts, slow
repairs, and worries over missing crewmates.  They'd just had a
high point, but the inability to aid the three crewmembers they'd
just found took the joy out of finding them.  It was time for a show
of support from the captain.  He stood.  "All hands," Sisko began,
knowing the computer would instantly open the comm line so that
every member of the crew would hear what he was about to say,
"I'd like to express my appreciation for all the hard work that this
crew has been doing.

      "I realize that the last week has been a great strain on all of us,
and it's not about to let up.  Just a few moments ago, sensors were
able to locate three of our missing crewmembers.  As yet we
cannot speak with them or transport them back aboard the ship,
but every day, every shift we are closer to doing that.  Your hard
work is paying off.  Let's keep working and bring our people
home."

.
To Be Continued....



-- 
--Gabrielle
I'd much rather be writing!

http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/trek/    The Edge of the Frontier
http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/doyle/   This Side of the Nether
Blog: http://www.gabriellewrites.blogspot.com

--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Awards Tech Support

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