Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:50:02 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 


Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 15/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

           Chapter Seven -- Continued

      Max carefully removed the wooden shoes from his feet.
His toes and heels were red and sore.  The shoes were too small.
They cut into his feet, but he did not dare go without them.  He'd
already seen some of the other prisoners with frostbite.  As painful
as the shoes were, he would rather wear them than stand barefoot
in the cold and mud during roll call.

      Especially given how long the roll calls were lasting.
Though he had only been in the camp a few days, maybe a
week,--he had already lost track--he could tell that something had
gone wrong.  The count wasn't right.  The numbers weren't adding
up.  So the Germans kept counting, and the prisoners kept dying as
they did so.

      "Do you think he's dead?" Vlada asked from behind his
hands.  He was always blowing into his hands to try and keep them
warm.

      Max put his shoes back on and then looked at the boy.
"The doctor?  I don't know."  And he really didn't.  But he didn't
want Vlada to think the worst anyway, not until they knew for
sure.  Things were bad enough already.  "They took him because
he was English.  Maybe they took him to a camp for prisoners of
war."

      "They probably had him shot," someone said from below.
He was speaking Yiddish.  Vlada leaned over the edge to see who
had spoken.  Max did as well.  "I heard the guards say he was a
spy."

      "A Nazi spy more likely," someone else added angrily, this
time from across the room.  "Why do you think he still has hair
when the rest of us were shaved?"

      "He can't even speak German," Vlada countered.  "How
can he be a spy for them?"

      "Why would the Nazis want to spy on us?" the first agreed.
"They already have us."

      "Maybe they just consider English Jews better than Slavic
Jews," a third suggested.

      Soon the whole front end of the barracks was arguing over
whether or not Bashir was being treated with privilege or hanged
with piano wire.  Max didn't know the answer.  He only knew that
Bashir had been kind to him for the three days they were together,
and he was protective of Vlada.  He was quiet and rarely spoke.
When he did, it was in English and appeared to be more for his
own comfort than any real communication.  When he really
wanted to say something, he used his hands, gesturing to convey
his meaning.

      Though they'd only met on the train, Vlada seemed
genuinely worried about him.  When the argument erupted, he had
backed up quietly to lean against the wall.  Eventually, the
*Blockalteste* decided that there was too much noise and
threatened to beat the next one who spoke.

      Max joined Vlada at the wall, and they sat in silence.
Vlada, no doubt, was thinking of Bashir or perhaps his cousin.
Max thought of his wife and daughter.  Every thought, every
memory brought their faces back into sight.  He tried to tell
himself that at least they'd been spared the torture of starvation
and cold that threatened him every hour of every day.  But it did
not make it hurt any less.


      By 2000 hours Fellini and Nohtsu were back on board the
*Defiant*--Nohtsu in sickbay with Salerno, and Fellini in a
damaged shuttle bay that was serving as a temporary morgue.  Still
unable to speak, Nohtsu had written up a brief report.  She and
Fellini had been in the turbolift on their way to Engineering when
the transporter took them.  As they rematerialized, they were quite
shocked to see that there was nothing beneath their feet.

      Judging from her rate of fall, Nohtsu estimated that they
had materialized over 3,000 feet in the air.  Sisko wasn't sure how
she survived, but he'd heard stories when he was younger of
people who had been skydiving and had fallen thousands of feet
only to bounce.  Some were injured.  Some had gotten up and
walked away.  Fellini had not been so lucky.  His neck had broken
on impact along with most of his other bones.  Nohtsu had stayed
by him, trying to ward off the scavengers, but she was wounded
herself.  Fellini was in poor shape when he rematerialized on the
transporter pad.

      Sisko let the hand that held Nohtsu's report drop to his side
as he surveyed the shuttle bay.  Eleven shiny black casings held
them.  Some with bodies, some with scraps of uniform.  There was
nothing for Sopok; he was the twelfth.  Twelve was too many.  But
at least they'd been found--most of them.  He sighed.  Fifteen
comm signals and fifteen crewmembers.  He felt relieved of at
least a portion of his anxiety.  But the stomachache had grown
worse.

      There was some half-hearted grumbling on the ship,
rumors that some of the crew wanted to go back now.  They had
looked for their missing people for over a week now.  They had
found all they were going to find.  They were tired and the ship
was damaged.  It was time to go home.

      But Sisko knew it wasn't.  It couldn't be.  Even if it wasn't
Julian.  And he knew his crew knew it, too.  Starfleet Temporal
Policy was clear.  They could not leave the missing crewman there
unless and until they knew there was no threat of changing the
timeline.  In other words, they would have to know that Julian was
dead.  There was no other way they could leave him--or any other
of their crew.

      And the changeling was an even bigger worry.  If, by some
unforeseen circumstance, they had to leave Bashir behind, Sisko
could trust that Julian would do his best to leave the timeline
intact.  But the changeling could be actively attempting to change
it.  The easiest way he and the others, with Thomas's input, had
decided was to influence the war going on below.  Novels had
been written about the concept.  What if Hitler and the Nazis had
won the war?  They weren't cheerful books.  What would the
consequences be to the 24th century?


      Julian Bashir awoke thankful for the darkness and the
silence inside his cell.  Even thankful for the thinness of the air.
He could live with that.  Just as long as no one touched him.  The
changeling had kept her word about the doctor.  One had come to
see him hours before, and the stinging in his back was just now
slowly ebbing away.  Iodine.  That was all the doctor had done,
perhaps all he could do with the Germans watching his every
move.

      The star sewn on his striped uniform had not escaped
Bashir's notice.  He was a Jewish doctor and a prisoner himself.
He could only do as he was told and no more.  The doctor had
entered silently, his face drawn and grave.  He'd seemed tired and
pained himself, and no doubt he was.  Bashir had felt sorry for
him, at least until he had applied the iodine.  All sympathy and
feelings he had for others had melted again as the antiseptic liquid
seeped into the welts and cuts that cris-crossed his back.  He had
barely heard the laughter of the guards as he had faded once again
to unconsciousness.

      But now as he awoke again, it was the pain that had
faded--at least as long as he didn't move.  He didn't ever want to
move again.

      But just then the door opened and a figure stood in the
doorway, his hands full of gray and blue striped fabric.  As he
stepped inside, Bashir was able to recognize the SS officer from
his first few hours here.  It had to be the changeling.  "Here are
your clothes," he said, using a heavy German accent, perhaps to
fool the guards.  He tossed the fabric at Bashir.  "Someone will be
here for you in thirty minutes.  I suggest you be ready for him
when he comes."  He stepped back and the door shut again.

      It took the full thirty minutes to get dressed.  Every
movement stirred up pain and threatened unconsciousness.  But
even if he'd been well, dressing in the dark would've been
difficult.  He had to fumble around to find the pants, the shirt.
And there was more this time.  Something big and heavy made of
the same material as the pants.  Bashir leaned his good shoulder
against the wall and tried to figure it out.  It had buttons, and when
he finally held it right, he discovered it had sleeves as well.  A
coat.  The changeling had given him a coat.

      This time when the door opened, he was sitting up,
propped against the wall and dressed.  He felt warm, at least for
now, and for that he could live with the material on his burning
back.  Besides, if he tucked his arm between the buttons of the
coat, it could act as a makeshift sling.

      The changeling, again as the SS officer, stood in the door,
but he wasn't alone.  Another guard stood with him.  The
changeling said something to him in German.  Bashir recognized
"Birkenau" again, but he was still not sure what it meant.

      The guard did know, however, and he nodded briskly
before stepping into the cell.  "*Steh' auf!*" he ordered.

      Bashir didn't understand but he could guess.  Using his
legs and pushing against the wall, he slowly got to his feet.  The
walls started to spin and the changeling in the doorway to blur, but
he managed to hold on to his consciousness despite the pain and
rapid movement.  At least until the guard spun him around forcibly
by grabbing his left arm.  It was overwhelming.  The cell again
went black and Julian's knees nearly buckled, but he remained on
his feet and didn't faint, even as his arms were wrenched behind
him and tied at the wrists.

      And then they were walking.  Out of the cell, up the
stairs--slowly--and out of the building into the biting wind and
cold of winter.  Bashir was glad for the coat, but it wasn't enough
to protect against the icy wind.  It was night again, or still, Bashir
was not sure which.  Going down the stairs, he had nearly fallen,
but he got back to his feet and walked again in a daze.  They went
past the guards that stood at the gate and past the long brick
buildings and even the iron sign.  Soon they were out in the open
fields, and Bashir could see the stars above his head.  *Why can't
you find me?* he thought to the *Defiant* up there somewhere.
But he knew the answer.  With no comm badge, he was just
another human.  *Are you even looking any more?*

      They walked on, the guard occasionally exhorting Bashir
to go faster, sometimes with only his voice, other times with a
push from the butt of his gun.  Bashir wasn't sure how long they'd
walked but as the sky turned from black to a dull gray, he began to
see the outlines of the big camp with fence posts standing like
candy canes.  They kept walking and the sky brightened with
every few steps, little by little.

      *Sunrise again,* Bashir mused vaguely and then could not
remember why he would find that funny.  The guard prodded him
with his gun, and Bashir lurched over in pain.  He wanted to turn
around and yell at the man.  Hurting him only slowed him down.
But he knew he didn't have the strength either to turn around or to
yell.  Every bit of energy he had was focused into walking in front
of the guard.

      For the second time since his arrival, he was amazed at the
workings of his legs.  As they neared the large camp, he wondered
how they'd managed to carry him this far.  They passed under the
large central watch tower Bashir remembered from when he'd
been taken out.  He couldn't think how long ago it was.  It was
hard enough to think of not falling down as his legs moved step by
step forward with the prodding of the guard.  He felt relieved to be
returning.  Anything was better than where he'd been.

      As he passed on the other side of the guard tower that stood
above the gate, he glanced upward and was surprised to still see a
few stars there.  The wind was swift and it kept the smoke at bay
enough to let a few pinpricks of light shine through.  As he
watched one of them shimmered and wavered and then
disappeared altogether as if it had just gone under cloak.  His heart
leapt and he forgot all about his legs which carried him with much
greater ease now.  He dared to hope that it was the *Defiant,*
cloaking so as not to be seen in the night sky.

      *They'll come for me soon, you'll see,* he thought, as if to
argue with the guard who even now was prodding him again.  It
was too much this time and he fell forward, catching himself on
his knees.  His back had hurt enough without any help from the
guard's gun.  He tried to get to his feet again before the guard
became more impatient.  *I will not die here!* he screamed in his
mind.  *I will not die here!*

      Behind him, the guard cursed loudly and then grabbed the
back of Bashir's collar, hauling him to his feet.  His legs, faithful
as ever, kept carrying him, though his thoughts were beginning to
be grow fuzzy again from the fire he felt on his back.

      The guard stopped him in front of one of the large wooden
barracks.  The guard stepped around him to open the door, and
Bashir saw hundreds of oval faces turn to look at him.  *Was this
my barracks?* he wondered.  He hoped it was.  He felt his wrists
behind him being untied.  A blaze of pain shot through his arm as
the guards hands brushed his own, and then his arms fell free to his
sides.  He started to take a step inside, hoping that his legs would
not fail him after coming all this way.  He wanted to get away
from the guard, to lose himself again in the multitude of inmates in
his barracks and in this camp.



      Max looked up when the door opened.  Everyone looked
up.  Bashir was standing in the doorway.  Just standing there.  He
had an odd look on his face, like he was not really there.  There
was a German guard behind him.  He untied Bashir's hands and
then shoved him forward.  A small cry escaped from the
Englishman as he fell forward, his right arm twisted up behind
him.

      He tried to catch himself with his other arm before he hit
the ground.  As soon as his fingers touched the dirt floor, he cried
out again and brought his hand up close to his chest, letting
himself fall the rest of the way.  He sat like that for several
moments, his knees tucked up under him and his shoulders and
face resting on the ground.  He panted hard, obviously in pain, but
didn't otherwise move.

      Some of the other prisoners began to taunt him, saying that
he certainly was getting special treatment.  Max was glad now that
Bashir couldn't understand them.  Vlada tapped his shoulder and
then jumped down from the bunk, beckoning for him to follow.
They hurried over to Bashir and knelt down on either side of him.

      "Let's get him up," Max told the boy.  He started to touch
Bashir's shoulder, but Bashir recoiled in pain once more, biting
back another cry.  Max pulled his hands away.  Something was
wrong with the shoulder as well.

      Max nodded to Vlada and then tried again, this time very
gently slipping his hands between Bashir's arm and his ribs.
Vlada did the same at the other side, but both were surprised when
Bashir took his hand and tried to sit up on his own.  Vlada looked
down at Bashir's hand.  His fingers were red with blood.  His
fingernails were gone.

      They managed to get him to his feet and walk him over to
their bunk.  He placed his good--better--hand on the bunk and
started to step up, but stopped.  The far away look in his

eyes was gone.  In its place, Max saw exhaustion and pain.  Max
stood for a moment transfixed by those eyes and then sent Vlada
up to the bunk ahead of him.  Then he and Vlada pushed and
pulled as Bashir gave as much effort as he had.

      Bashir made it to the bunk and then collapsed, face down
on the rough wood, his right arm lying along his side.  His left arm
was brought up close by his shoulder.  He breathed hard and
unevenly, and his whole body shook with cold.  In less than a
minute though he was unconscious.


      Benjamin Sisko started to choke back the yawn he felt
emerging from his throat and then decided it was a futile attempt.
Stevens, the head engineer while the Chief was off duty, didn't
seem to take it the wrong way.

      "Should work now," Stevens was saying.

      Sisko almost smiled but then thought better of it.  It might
not work at all.  "We're ready to try then?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Mr. Worf," Sisko ordered, "prepare to engage cloaking
device."

      "Aye, sir," the Klingon acknowledged.  There was a
moment's pause as he keyed in the commands.  "Ready, Captain."

      "Engage cloak."

      Sisko held his breath, as did the rest of the bridge crew.  It
was becoming a tradition.  They'd all done the same thing when
they waited to see if communications or the transporters were
really going to work.  Nothing happened and Sisko was about to
release the air in his lungs when the lights began to slowly dim.
"Mr. Stevens?"

      "It's working, sir!" Stevens reported excitedly.  "We're
cloaking!"

      Finally the lights stabilized, basking the bridge in the
familiar subdued lighting of the cloaked *Defiant.*  Worf
confirmed it.  "The cloak is functioning at one hundred percent,
Captain."

      Stevens' smile swelled with pride.

      "Good work," Sisko nodded to him.  "What's next?"

      Stevens' smile faded.  He turned somberly and headed for
the turbolift.

      Sisko leaned back again in his chair and thought about
Bashir.  They had nearly circled the globe again after picking up
Nohtsu and Fellini and still had no signal from Bashir.  But now
with the cloak, they didn't have to constrain their search to the
daylight side of the planet.  A more systematic search plan could
be utilized, leaving no area of the planet uncovered.  A doubt
remained, however.  If Bashir's comm badge was disabled, they
still wouldn't be able to find it.

      *No room for doubts,* Sisko told himself.  He had to show
confidence in his crew.  "Major," he said and waited for her to join
him at his chair.  "Work with the helm.  Set a course that will
cover every square inch of this planet in the least time.  And if
moving in closer will increase the sensor range, do it."

      Kira nodded, but didn't turn away immediately.  Her eyes
looked troubled.  "Do you think he's still alive?" she whispered.
She lowered her eyes.  "All the others. . . ."

      "Not all," Sisko reminded her, his voice low and gentle.
"And I have to believe he's still alive.  We all do."

      Kira nodded and regained her full amount of composure.
She and Dax moved away to the table in the rear of the bridge to
discuss the new course.


      Max watched Bashir carefully, thinking it ironic that he
was playing doctor while the doctor was being a patient.  Vlada
had proven himself to be quite innovative.  He'd managed to find
a somewhat clean shirt to use for bandages.  Max didn't bother to
ask where he had gotten it.  Vlada had washed it as well as
possible by finding a pile of snow unmarred as of yet by muddy
feet and general grime.  Then he'd laid it out across his legs as he
sat on the ground outside, moving around to take advantage of the
few rays of sunlight that filtered in through smoke that filled the
camp.  It had taken all day, but the shirt was nearly dry, though it
was still cold and stiff from the frigid air.

      To be honest, Max had thoroughly expected Bashir to die
before the next roll call, but the Englishman had stubbornly held
on to life.  He'd been only half-conscious when Max and Vlada
had left him to go out for drills.  The SS were staying away due to
a typhus epidemic, and Bashir could stay in the barracks with the
other sick and dying prisoners.  Amazingly, he regained
consciousness somewhere around noon, and with help, had even sat
up, leaning sideways with his right shoulder against the barracks
wall.  He hadn't said a word or asked for anything.  Max wasn't
sure if that was from shock or the realization of the futility of
speaking when no one understood his language.  Still, it was
disconcerting.

      The doctor's back, once they'd managed to remove his
coat and blood-stained shirt, was riddled with an ugly pattern of
red and bleeding welts and cuts.  Max tore the front of the extra
shirt into strips that could be used for bandages, and then draped
the rest of it across Bashir's back.  Bashir had winced a little at the
pain, but still kept quiet.

      Bashir regained his authority as the doctor when it came to
his left arm.  Using his other hand, he had directed Max in the
most effective way to support his shoulder and bandaged his own
bent and broken hand.  Shortly after, he'd fallen asleep again, still
sitting against the wall.  He had only awoken when Vlada brought
him some of the black bread and sausage to eat.  Bashir ate it
hungrily, and Max realized that he probably hadn't eaten since
they had taken him away.  Evening came and with it another roll
call.  It took a long time, and a lot of help from Vlada, for Bashir
to stand again.  Even the sick had to go to roll call.  The
*Blockalteste* yelled at them for being slow, but luckily did not
threaten them physically.

      The three of them were the last to leave the courtyard, but
they were not far behind the others.  The wind was strong, but the
smoke was heavy and was replaced almost as quickly as it was
blown away.  The walk to the *Appellplatz* was difficult, but
Bashir kept up. Vlada held on to his good arm to steady him.

      When they lined up, Max pushed to find a place for them
in the center of the row.  He did not want to be on the outside.
Bashir's condition would certainly draw attention, and after a week
in this hell, Max had learned that that was one thing you never
wanted to do here.  Max also realized that with Bashir, being
inconspicuous was nearly impossible.  Even buried in the middle
of three hundred men, his height made him stand out.  And his full
head of hair finished the job.  Though Max himself had resented
the shaving of his own hair, he now appreciated the uniformity it
provided.

      Every few minutes, Max would dart his eyes toward
Bashir, not daring to turn his head.  The doctor stared silently at
the feet of the man in front of him, his head bowed.  His shoulders
swayed slightly with the wind, but he remained on his feet.


      For Julian, the roll call was an exercise of contradictions.
He felt nothing and he felt pain.  He was cold and he felt that he
would burn up.  He was tired but he could not close his eyes.  He
stood and yet he could not feel the ground beneath his feet.  He
longed to go back inside, and yet wished never to move again.  His
coat felt the brush of the wind that shook the body that was
oblivious to it.  The world was a dream with no reality at all.

      As if they were sounding in his own mind, he heard the SS
counting.  He knew what they were saying, understood their
numbers, though he knew he didn't speak German.  *Fifty,
fifty-five,* they were saying.  *Sixty.*  They kept counting.  *One
hundred, one hundred and five.*  On and on they counted, until the
numbers again became incomprehensible to him.  Unsatisfied with
their numbers they started again.  *Five, ten, fifteen.*

      Three rows up and to the right, a man dropped to his knees
and then fell to the ground.  The SS officer who'd been counting
this particular section of the prisoners, stopped his  counting and
swiftly came over to the man, his club raised.  Bashir watched it as
if it was a dream, half pitying the man and half unable to believe
that it was really happening.  The SS beat him slowly, as if moving
in slow motion.  The man cried out, and it echoed in Julian's ears.
Then his cries stopped.  He stopped moving.  The SS, sweating
from the effort of the beating, drew away and resumed his
dispassionate counting right where he left off.  *Seventy-five,
eighty.*

      A small gallows was erected in the *Appellplatz.*  Bashir
hadn't remembered seeing it before.  One of the Germans, an SS
who obviously commanded the respect of all the other guards,
addressed the gathering.  His voice boomed with anger and
loathing.  Bashir didn't understand what was being said, and Max
could not even attempt to explain it during the roll call, not even to
Vlada who would have understood a Czech translation.

      But after a few minutes of the German's ranting, Bashir
saw that a translation was unnecessary.  He still did not know the
details as the three men were marched out toward the gallows.
They could barely stand.  All three of them were bruised and
battered and bleeding.  Bashir thought it a wonder that they could
even walk.  Then he vaguely wondered if he looked as bad as they
did.  They'd apparently been punished severely, perhaps even
tortured like himself.  And now they were going to hang.

      Then there was a sound, an odd sound at a time when there
was only supposed to be counting.  Short, uneven taps sounded
through the forest of prisoners.  Bashir didn't dare turn his head to
see what it was.  It would undoubtedly come into focus given
enough time.  Besides, he wasn't entirely sure that he cared what
the sound was.

      The sound drew closer until a procession emerged between
two groups of prisoners.  At the head was a man, barely able to
stand himself.  He wore a sign with German writing and carried a
drum which he tapped raggedly as the German guards behind him
prodded him forward.  He was wearing street clothes, not the dull
stripes of the prisoners.  But Bashir could see by his shaved head
and gaunt face that he had belonged to Auschwitz.  He had
escaped.

      Only now he'd been caught.  The respected SS was once
again speaking, yelling so that all could hear him.  The three were
lined up in front of the gallows on what looked like a bench.  The
nooses were around their necks.  Only one remained empty.  They
looked at the drummer with eyes dulled by pain.  He looked back
at them and dropped his shoulders a little closer to the ground.
They were friends.  The bench was removed and the three
dropped.  It was only a few inches, so their necks didn't break.
They dangled there, jerking and writhing as they slowly strangled
to death from their own weight.  It began to snow.

      Bashir watched it all from afar, as if it were only a dream.
Yet somewhere in his mind, he knew that these were real men with
real lives now ended.  He closed his eyes against the wind and the
snow and against the sight of the bodies twitching there.  When he
opened them again, the three were still, but the drummer was
being put on the bench.  The noose was tightened around his neck.
The bench was again removed, and he joined the three in death.

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

http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/

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