Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:53:09 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 


Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 19/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:


                 Chapter Nine

      Julian Bashir couldn't keep his hands from shaking.  Or his
knees for that matter.  He knew it wasn't just the cold.  It was
exhaustion.  He guessed it was only noon.  It was hard to tell
because the smoke blocked out the sun.  He had only been
working for three or four hours, but already his muscles felt like
they were going to explode from over-exertion.  His arms ached
terribly, especially the left.  He knew he should not be moving it at
all, but he didn't have a choice.  The second SS, luckily, had not
taken notice of the particular way he held it or of his bandaged
hand.  But Bashir knew if he ever did, he'd be counted unfit and
killed.  And despite the pain, the fatigue, and even the hunger, he
still wanted to live.  He wanted to see the *Defiant* and the station
again.  And he wanted to live long enough to see the changeling
die, preferably by his own hand.

      His eyes blurred because he felt dizzy, and it was hard to
see the little wires he was twisting.  His numb fingers frequently
slipped off the tool he used.  It would fall down between the bars
of wire, and he would have to bend down farther to retrieve it,
usually with his left hand.  His right was too busy supporting his
imbalanced weight.  Picking up the tool was incredibly difficult
since he couldn't get the crushed bones of his hand to work
correctly, when they would work at all.  And of course, all this
would cause Heiler endless moments of entertainment as she very
effectively played the role of the SS officer.  She also had to keep
watch on the rest of the kommando, but whenever she came back
around to him, she taunted him or pushed him down among the
labyrinth of cold, black wire, just so she could watch him struggle
to stand up again.

      When she or her partner wasn't around, it was the *kapo*'s
job to keep the kommando working.  He mostly just yelled at the
other prisoners to work faster, but when the SS came into sight,
he'd be more forceful, even to the point of violence.  When the SS
were gone, he would calm back down and return to verbal threats.
Bashir noticed this and saw it as a kindness of sorts, perhaps as
much as the *kapo* could afford under the circumstances.  His
verbal threats amounted to nothing so long as the SS were not
around.  But when the SS were watching, perhaps out of fear for
his own life, he met their expectations for cruelty, showing himself
worthy of his heightened position.

      It was unfortunate then, that Bashir was the weakest link in
the kommando.  He couldn't work any faster or less clumsily, no
matter how he tried.  Though he tried hard not to dwell on them,
his injuries were severe, even life-threatening should they become
infected--and he expected they would become infected in due
course from the lack of sanitation.  They kept him from
performing to higher standards, even though in his top form he
would have found the work difficult given the long duration of
labor without a break and the constant stress and fear meted out by
the guards.  He tried to concentrate instead on his work, not the
whole job in general though--he didn't want to think about
building a gas chamber--but the individual tasks: each small wire
that he twisted around the rebar to form the mesh of
reinforcement.  Still, he was slow and clumsy, and the *kapo*
spent most of the time, when the SS could see, focusing his
attention on Bashir.

      He was surprised then when the *kapo* called him over to
him.  The SS were at the other side of the site.  Another prisoner
was waiting there with the *kapo*, one Bashir had seen in the
barracks or at the line for food.  "*Bring die Suppe,*" he said,
speaking in German, though he didn't say it angrily.  "*Und beeil
dich. Alle hier haben Hunger.*"  The other man nodded and began
to walk away.  "*Geh mit ihm,*" the *kapo* told Bashir,
motioning with his hand that he should follow.

      So Bashir turned and tried to hurry to catch the man.  He
had stopped a few meters away to wait for him.  He didn't say
anything when Bashir reached him, but he continued down the
road.  He walked quickly at first and it was difficult to keep up,
but Bashir was relieved not to have to march double-time
wherever they were going.  After they had gone some distance
from the site, the man slowed to a more leisurely stroll.  He lifted
his head to the smoke-covered sky and stretched his arms.
"*Parlez-vous francais?*" he asked, still looking at the sky.

      Suddenly the walking was less difficult.  It was amazing to
Bashir how much a familiar word could bring him to life again,
even if it only lasted a few minutes.  "*Oui,*" he answered
excitedly.  He even smiled.

      "*Vous ne comprenez pas l'allemand.*"  The man hadn't
asked if he understood the language.  It was apparently obvious to
the other prisoners that he didn't speak German.

      Bashir shook his head.  He was glad to have someone to
talk to.  "*Ou allons-nous?*" he asked, wondering where the
*kapo* had sent them.

      "*A la cuisine,*" the man answered, "*pour la soupe.*"

      The soup.  It was time for the midday meal.  Bashir had
seen two men carry the soup onto the work site the day before.
The soup came in a large can, close to a meter in height.  It looked
to be quite heavy.

      The Frenchman seemed to know what he was thinking.
"*C'est difficile,*" he said, looking Bashir over, "*mais c'est
mieux que travailler.  Nous puvons marcher lentement et il n'y a
aucun SS.  Heiler ne vous aime pas.*"

      Bashir thought about it and had to agree.  The walk to the
kitchen would be worth the difficulty of the trip back.  The SS had
stayed with the kommando.  The Frenchman and he were free to
walk as slowly as they liked.  And, no, Heiler certainly did not like
him.

      "*Comment vous appellez-vous?*" the Frenchman asked.

      "*Je m'appelle* Bashir, Julian Bashir," Bashir introduced
himself.  He even held out his hand to the man.

      The man smiled and took it, and it seemed for a moment
like the world had returned to civility.  "Henri," he said.  "Henri
Bresalier."  He released Bashir's hand, but didn't let go of his own
smile.  "*Vous etes anglais.*"

      Bashir nodded and wondered if the whole camp knew that
he was English.

      Henri stopped and motioned that Bashir should stop, too.
"I," he began slowly, obviously thinking carefully before he
spoke, "want. . . ."  He paused as he searched for the word.
". . . . learning this English."  It was a valiant effort, at least in
Bashir's eyes.  He wasn't sure exactly why this man wanted to
learn English here, but it seemed a good way for Bashir to make a
friend, or at least an ally.  "You learn to me?" the Frenchman
continued.

      Bashir opened his mouth to tell him that, of course, he
would try to teach him English, but then he hit on an idea.  "*Ou
dormez-vous?*" he asked.  He was hoping that Henri occupied a
bunk back in the barracks and had a little room to share.  He didn't
think he could take another sleepless night fighting rats on the
floor.

      Henri seemed to understand.  His smile was gone, but his
eyes showed sympathy.  *"Vous dormez sur le plancher avec les
rats.*"  He sighed and looked away, thinking.  He started to walk
again.  "This is difficult," he said, trying his limited English again.
Bashir appreciated that he tried.  He would probably make a good
student.  "It is many people."

      "How many people?" Bashir asked, trying to keep his
words simple so that Henri would understand.  "How many sleep
with you?"

      He considered his answer for a moment.  "*Hier,*" he
began in French, "was six.  One now is *mort.*"

      That left five.  It was still crowded, but if they'd slept six
in a bunk before, perhaps he could still have the recently vacated
spot.  But Henri didn't seem so sure.  "*Pourquoi voulez-vous
apprendre l'anglais?*"

      "*Apres la guerre,*" Henri replied, "*je voudrais habiter
en Amerique.  J'ai une soeur qui habite au Missouri.*"

      Bashir had never been to Missouri, but it sounded like a
wonderful place to be right about now.  In the middle of America,
away from the dangers of the war, and very far away from
Auschwitz.  He hoped Henri would live to see his sister again and
have his chance to go to Missouri after the war.  But it would be
difficult.  He had two more years to go before the war would end.

      They walked awhile longer without saying anything.
Warehouses came into view.  "*C'est difficile,*" Henri repeated.
"*Maintenant, il y a cinq hommes dans le lit,*" he laughed a little
at calling the bunk a bed.

      "*Mais, hier, il y avait six,*" Bashir countered.  If there
had been six yesterday, it would make no difference to have six
again.

      Henri shook his head.  "*Je ne sais pas.*  All is. . .," he
gestured with his hands to try and be understood, "near.  *Serre.*"

      Bashir didn't look at the Frenchman as they walked.  Of
course, five men was still crowded, but he was desperate.  He was
barely managing now, injured as he was.  He would never survive
if he stayed on the floor every night barely getting any sleep
before the rats came.  He would be exhausted before he ever got to
roll call.  And he'd get beaten at work for not being fast enough.
Then he'd become weaker and weaker, and one day, he'd be too
weak to fight the rats.

      As he walked he had a thought.  He was a doctor.  He knew
there wasn't much that he could do, but it might still be useful to
someone to have a doctor nearby in this place.  "*Je suis
medecin.*"  He said it confidently, hoping that Henri would think
it of as much importance as he pretended it was.

      Henri stopped.  "*Vraiment?*" he asked, looking not a
little skeptical.  "*Pourquoi travaillez-vous ici?  Ca,*" he pointed
to the right where a smaller group of buildings stood, "*c'est
l'hopital.*"

      *Hospital?* Bashir thought.  *Here?*  He looked closer at
the group of buildings, and then he looked down at his hand, still
somewhat protected inside his shirt pocket.

      Henri must have guessed what he was thinking.   He shook
his head.  "*C'est tres dangereux.  Il y a beaucoup de selections la.
Les malades sont gazes.  Vous,*" he paused to point a warning
finger at Bashir, "*vous serez gaze aussi.*"

      Bashir sighed and began walking again.  Henri was right.
He remembered hearing that now.  The SS doctors would go to the
hospital often for selections among the sick.  And Bashir knew he
could not hope to pass a selection.  As much as he hated being
obliged to the changeling, he had to admit that he'd been lucky
last time.  She had come for him before it started.  He didn't know
how often the selections were outside the hospital, but it would be
taking too much of a chance inside.  But then, that could be to his
advantage, too.  After all, if it was too dangerous to go to the
hospital, wasn't it better to have a doctor right in your own
barracks, or even your bunk?  He told Henri this, and waited for a
reaction.

      He had to wait awhile, but finally Henri spoke.  "*Je dois
en discuter avec les autres.*"

      Bashir thought that he was getting through to Henri.  He
only hoped Henri could convince the others, but he wouldn't know
until they returned to the barracks that night.  They didn't talk of it
again.  Instead they talked about "before the war."  Bashir had
been worried at first, but it turned out to be rather easy.  He could
talk about Paris and Palis, his ex-fiancee, as if it was only a few
years ago and not several centuries in the future.  He talked about
his friends and England, too, and listened to Henri describe his
family.  Bashir knew he was winning Henri over when the
Frenchman began telling him everything about his sister and how
he should meet her.

      They reached the kitchen at last, but Bashir thought it too
soon.  Though, of course, he was hungry, he hadn't wanted the
almost leisurely walk to end.  For that short time, he had felt some
of his fear drop away.  Now pain and exhaustion would replace it
until they arrived back at the work site where terror would take
over again.  The can they had to carry was large and heavy.  Henri
politely told him to take the left side, so that he could carry it with
his good arm, but it was still very difficult.  Henri had trouble as
well.  They were both weakened from hunger and overwork, but
somehow they got the can to move a few meters before setting it
back down.  A little bit of the watery swill slopped to the ground,
and Bashir felt guilty for his clumsiness.  He might have just cost
someone his meal.  Perhaps himself.

      The walk back was longer and not nearly as pleasant as the
walk to the kitchen had been.  In fact, it was nearly as much
torture as the work had been, though Bashir admitted there were
no *kapos* or SS to beat them for being slow.  At least not yet.


      Max began to worry more when Vlada stopped coming to
the bunk at night.  He always showed up before morning, and
always with some extra food which he shared, but he averted his
eyes and never spoke of where he'd been.  If asked, he would
change the subject.  He always wanted to talk about after the war.
He said that maybe he would go to England after the war.  He
would try to find Bashir's family and tell them that he was dead.
Max tried to tell him that it would be very difficult to find one
man's family.  Bashir hadn't even said where he had lived there.
In fact, he had said very little at all since neither of them spoke
English.  He suggested to Vlada that he go back to Prague and try
to find his own family.  But the boy didn't want to talk about that
either.  He would turn away and disappear into the sea of striped
uniforms.  And Max would wonder if he was going back to the
*Blockalteste.*

      Tonight was like the others.  Vlada hung close to Max and
seemed afraid to leave him.  He sat very close to him while they
ate.  He talked a lot, about what he would do after the war, about
what he thought England was like, about how far it was from
Poland.  America was even farther, or Australia.  Maybe he would
go there after the war.  He talked quickly, like he was nervous and
never saved any of his food for later, like Max advised him.  Max
need not have worried so much about food though.  Vlada actually
seemed to be gaining weight.  He was still thin, still hungry often,
but not like the others.  The *Blockalteste* was giving him good
food, or at least better than what was given to the other *zugange*,
the camp word for the new inmates, like Max, who were still in
quarantine and not expected to survive to be accepted into the
main camp.  Vlada had learned all about that from his
disappearings, though he never admitted that the *Blockalteste*
had told him.

      The main camp was worse, he said, because they would
have to work all day long.  But Max wasn't sure that was worse.
Maybe it was no better, but it could hardly be worse than
quarantine.  The 'sport' was perhaps entertaining to the
*Blockalteste* and his German commanders, but it was torture for
the *zugange.*  Max had it a little easier than most of the others
because Vlada shared his extra food.  But still the vigorous
exercises everyday were, to say the least,  exhausting.  For some,
they were deadly.  There hadn't been a day yet where someone--
usually more than one--didn't die from the workout.  And roll call
always took a few more.

      Vlada fidgeted as he sat eating his tiny portion of sausage.
"*Zehn Minuten!*" the *Blockalteste* called.  Vlada nearly
jumped.  He sighed hard and handed his bread to Max saying that
he couldn't eat anymore.

      "You don't have to go," Max said, sensing the boy's fear.

      Vlada looked up at him then, for the first time in weeks,
and his eyes were filled with sadness and a pleading.  He wished it
was true.  Then he climbed down off the bunk and disappeared in
the direction of the *Blockalteste*'s little room.


      Bashir sat in what was becoming his usual spot, with his
back facing the wall, just around the corner from the barracks
door.  The stars were completely obscured this time, so he watched
the billowing smoke float by instead.  He wasn't really sitting.
The ground was too wet and muddy.  His clothes, for the most
part, were currently dry and he didn't want to change that.  So he
was crouched beside the barracks.  He was tired but, as yet, he had
no place to sleep.  Curfew wasn't for another quarter of an hour.
Or so he guessed.  There was no clock in the barracks or any other
way to tell the time except by the activities of the camp.  Roll call
had just ended, and the sky was dark.  But the barracks was still
open.  Curfew was at nine o'clock according to the *Blockalteste*.
So one could deduce that it was before nine, but still rather late.
Henri was inside trying to convince the other inmates who shared
his bunk to let Bashir sleep there as well.

      "You are a doctor?"

      The question, in English, came as a surprise to him.  He
looked up to see Szymon looking back down at him.  As always,
Piotr was beside him.

      "You might as well sit down," Julian sighed.  He was too
tired to be friendly with the surly Pole.  "I'm not standing up until
I have to."

      Szymon made no retort.  He didn't even change
expressions, but he moved to Bashir's right and crouched down
beside him.  "This is true?"

      Bashir thought about his answer.  By the regulations of
Starfleet's Temporal Policy, he should not have told anyone that
he was a doctor.  They would expect him to help them, and saving
lives, no matter how much he would want or feel the need to do it,
would likely change the timeline in unpredictable ways.  But, as
he'd learned before in the Sanctuary District, Temporal Policy was
easier in the classroom.  This was real.  People were dying and he
was one of them.  Besides, he had already surmised before that
there was little he could do as a doctor here.  Saving lives was out
of his reach.  "It's true.  I am a doctor."

      Szymon looked skeptical but he translated the words for
Piotr anyway.  "Does the SS know this?"

      Bashir lifted his left hand slightly, careful not to move his
shoulder at all.  "They did this to me because I am a doctor.  I was
a surgeon."

      "Surgeon?  What is this?"

      Bashir tried to think of an easier way to explain it.  "I did
operations."

      Szymon nodded and told Piotr what Bashir had said.  "This
is why," he asked, pointing to Bashir's broken fingers, "you do not
make operations in the hospital?"

      Bashir nodded but explained further.  "I did not know there
was a hospital here.  Are there medicines there?"

      "No," Szymon answered.  "Only some.  Mostly is there
death."

      A small crowd of perhaps a dozen men was gathering.  A
few hunched down beside the three of them, but most stood in a
semicircle around them, wrapping their blankets or coats tight
around their shoulders.  One of them was Henri.  Bashir gave him
a hopeful look.

      When he spoke, he spoke instead to Szymon in heavily
accented German.  Szymon rolled his eyes up at him, apparently
not happy with his new role as Block interpreter.  But he did relay
the message.  "You must show this operation."

      Bashir didn't understand.  What operation?  And how
could he show it?  An operation required instruments and two
working hands.  Bashir didn't think he could count even his right
hand as qualified.  The crowd parted and a short man was brought
to him.  He knelt down in the snow and mush and held out his
hand to Bashir.  It was wrapped with a worn piece of cloth that
showed a dark stain just over his palm.  Bashir was beginning to
understand.  He had to help the man to gain their trust, and
hopefully, a place on the bunks.  But he still didn't know how he
could help.

      Studying their faces, he knew he had to do something.  So
very carefully, he unwrapped the cloth, keeping his left hand still
laying against his thigh.  There was a gash across the man's palm
at least two inches long and quite deep.  It was still oozing blood
despite the bandaging.  Back on the station or in the *Defiant*'s
sickbay, such a cut would be easy to heal.  A few moments with a
dermal regenerator and the hand would be like new.  But here, in
this time, he would need stitches.  Bashir didn't even have
common sewing thread, let alone surgical thread.  And neither did
he have a needle.  He would also need to clean the wound, to keep
it from infection and clean cloth to wrap it with.  All that seemed
impossible here.  For now, he merely pushed his own thumb over
the cut, squeezing the man's hand as hard as his weakened fingers
would allow.  The man did not protest, but his face showed his
discomfort.

      "Tell him to do this," Bashir told Szymon, motioning with
his chin how he was holding the man's wound.  Szymon obeyed
and Bashir let go of his hand.  The man clamped it tight with his
other hand.  "He needs stitches," Bashir said, but at Szymon's
confused stare he held up his hand making what he hoped was a
comprehensible motion for sewing.

      Szymon got the message and turned to the crowd.  "*Hat
hier irgend jemand Nadel und Faden?*" he asked, first in German,
then Polish and then back to German, but with a different dialect.
*Yiddish,* Bashir thought.  *These people are Jews.  They
probably speak Yiddish.*

      There was a lot of hurried mumbling as the interested
parties turned to their neighbors to see if they had what was
required.  One man spoke excitedly.  "*Mein Bruder im Block
nebenan ist Schneider.  Vielleicht hat er welche.*"

      "*Geh, schnell,*" Szymon told him, standing up.  "*Beeil
dich, es ist bald Zeit!*"  The man ran away quickly, and Szymon
resumed his crouch.  "Maybe he will organize this," he told
Bashir.

      Bashir didn't quite understand, but there was nothing else
to say until the man returned.  They had to wait several minutes,
but he soon came running back.  He looked over his shoulder
fearfully.  "*Ein SS-Mann hatte mich fast gesehen,*" he said.

      "*Hast Du es?*" Szymon asked impatiently.

      "*Nur die Nadel,*" the man answered and he carefully
opened his coat and squinted hard in the darkness.  But finally he
found what he was looking for and pulled a small needle from the
lining of his striped coat.  "*Ich muB sie bis morgen vor dem
Appell zuruck bringen.*"

      Szymon grabbed it from him and spoke again, "*Wir
brauchen etwas Faden.*  How much?" he asked Bashir.  He held
out his hands about six inches apart.  Realizing that he must be
talking about thread, Bashir pulled Szymon's left hand farther
from his right.  Szymon stood and showed with his hands the
length that was required.  "*Marek, wiem, ze masz nitke.*" he
said to one man in particular who tried to look uninterested in the
whole affair.  "*Wziales ja z naszywek.*"

      "*Tak, wzialem. Dla siebie,*" the man retorted
defensively.

      "*No, dawaj, Marek.*" Szymon tried to convince him, and
Bashir was surprised at the effort the usually cold Szymon was
giving to the cause of this demonstration.  "*Jesli on naprawde
jest lekarzem, to bedzie warte wiecej niz kawalek nitki.*"

      "*A jesli nie jest, to nie bede mial nitki*."  The man
seemed unwilling to bend.  Finally others in the crowd joined
Szymon in trying to coerce him until finally he gave in.  He pulled
a piece of thread perhaps a third of a meter in length from one of
the pockets in his pants and handed it to Szymon who passed it to
Bashir.

      Julian was amazed.  Despite the conditions, the prisoners
were resourceful.  Bashir now had a needle and thread.  It would
have been wonderful if he'd had some scissors or a knife, but he
didn't bother to ask.  The SS probably wouldn't allow those
things.  They could be too dangerous.  He would have to make due
with breaking the thread.  But it still wasn't enough.  He really
needed two hands.  He turned to Henri, who had thus far been the
most helpful person in the barracks.  "*Aidez-moi, s'il vous
plait,*" he said holding up the thread and needle to him.

      Henri saw what was needed and knelt beside the patient.
He also had to squint to see the needle.  The rest of the crowd
caught the hint and crouched down, giving him whatever light was
available.  He threaded the needle more easily then and handed it
back to Bashir.

      "*Zehn Minuten!*" the *Blockalteste* cried out.  Now the
pressure was on.

      In the end, it turned out that the bunk was as crowded as
Henri had said it was.  Everyone had to lay on his side in order to
fit, and someone was pressed against him on either side.  But it
was still better than sleeping on the floor.  His own head was
facing the aisle between the two rows of bunks just across from
Szymon and Piotr.  Henri was behind him and the short man with
the cut was in front.   Because of his height, Bashir did get a little
extra room above the man's feet to lay his broken hand.

      And Julian Bashir slept a little better knowing that he had
gained the confidence of at least a few people in this new barracks.
Henri had even spoken to him using the informal "*tu*" in place
of "*vous.*"  It meant he was now considered a friend.  As for the
stitches, he doubted his professors would have approved, but he
had done well considering his limitations.  He had made nearly a
dozen stitches and tied nearly a dozen knots all without moving
his left hand.  And despite the numbness of his fingers and the
shakiness of his hands, the stitches had come out straight.
Someone had donated a small bit of relatively clean cloth, and the
wound was wrapped again, and all before the *Blockalteste*
called for lights out.


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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