Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:57:57 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson Title: Oswiecim Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 22/42 Rating: [PG-13] (Violence) Codes: Chapter Nine -- Continued Julian flashed Max a look that said good-bye and then headed after Henri and Szymon, glad to be moving his legs, even if it meant more pain in his back. Henri was getting better at translating for them, though Bashir felt a little guilty. It left less time for their lessons, and that had been the deal between them. But he seemed to like Max, who was sometimes able to 'organize' things from the transports he helped to unload. "Organizing," he had learned was a way of obtaining things. It wasn't stealing, though that happened here quite often with the weakest being the victims. One had to watch one's few belongings at all times. Henri had already lost his tin spoon, the one utensil they were given to eat with. Max, though, had managed to find another one. He also came back with food sometimes. It was dangerous though. If he had been caught with any such items, he could be sent to the punishment kommando or even Block 11. Bashir now knew that that was where he had been. The "Death Block" it was called. Most who entered it did not return, except perhaps to be killed publicly as a message to the rest of the prisoners. Bashir warned Max, too, not to take anything from the transports, though he couldn't help but hope that he had when he returned for evening roll call. The few morsels he smuggled back to the barracks meant the difference between complete starvation and survival. Even Szymon had become friendly then, when he knew Max would share, though he still rarely spoke to Bashir. He was even more suspicious now, knowing that he had survived Block 11. As they neared the construction site, Bashir hoped Heiler was having a good day. She seemed to suffer from fluctuations in her mood. Or rather, he suffered from fluctuations in her mood. When she was unhappy or too nostalgic, she made a conscious effort to make his work as hard as possible and then beat him for not doing it well enough. On better days, she nearly ignored him, settling for mere verbal tirades with perhaps only a few blows to punctuate her remarks. More and more she seemed to be taking to the role of SS officer, meting out her invectives to the other prisoners as well. She hadn't said anything to him yet this morning though. Her attention seemed to be elsewhere. The *kapo* had noted Bashir's injuries and the extra attention that Heiler gave him. He often sent him to go and fetch the midday soup ration, and he had put him on an easier task. He would still beat him, though, for being slow if the SS were watching. Bashir was now working to cement the ceiling of the undressing chamber. Pouring the cement wasn't easy, but at least he wasn't bent over the whole day. After it was poured, any pockets of air had to be removed. Doing so required little use of his left arm and didn't jar his back. Still he was constantly afraid that Heiler would get angry and push him into the fresh cement. She had come close twice already when she assailed him for moving too slowly. But he'd fallen into the rebar instead, scraping his cheek and his hands. Henri was nearby, working with Piotr to secure the rebar in place. When they were close enough together, Henri would continue his lesson with Bashir, practicing his English in whispers. The *kapo* didn't mind as long as they continued working. He even warned them when the SS was coming around. "Who is Vlada?" he asked. Bashir wasn't sure why he was asking now. It had been several nights since Max had first spoken of the boy. He hadn't said anything about him since, despite Bashir's questions. Before, Henri had merely translated, showing little interest in the actual conversations he and Max had. "Is he son of Max?" "Max's son," Bashir corrected. "No, we all met each other in quarantine." "Each other?" Henri didn't understand the phrase. "*L'un et l'autre,*" Bashir told him, just a little uncertain about the proper grammar in French. Henri nodded. "Why you think so much on him?" "I met his cousin on the train from Poland," Bashir said. He paused as he waited for another prisoner to pour more cement down in front of him. "I promised him I would take care of Vlada. He's just a boy and he's alone." "Cousin is *cousin?*" Henri asked. Bashir nodded his confirmation as he pressed and folded the wet cement. "Max is thinking bad on this boy." "Max is *worried* about Vlada," Bashir affirmed, stressing the correct word for Henri. "Yes, I know, but he will not say why." "Worried is *passe compose?*" Bashir sighed. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong word. It had to be confusing. "Worried" was in the past tense, but "is" is present. It was correct, but it would take some explaining for Henri to understand. But the *kapo* caught his attention. He had removed his hat to scratch his head. He nodded once to Bashir before replacing it. The SS was coming. "Tonight!" Bashir whispered, motioning toward the *kapo* with his head. Henri caught the warning and bent further to his work, but it was too late. Heiler was upon him, beating him as he screamed. "*Jetzt ist nicht die Zeit zum Unterhalten, du scheiB Jude! Hast du Angst vor der Arbeit? Vielleicht denkst du, du muBtest nicht arbeiten. Faules Schwein!*" Piotr beside him looked away and worked faster, edging away from the raging SS man and his victim. Bashir stood still. He was shocked, not that Heiler could beat a man, but that he had chosen Henri for it. It was Bashir who had said the last word. "Are you stupid?" Szymon whispered right beside his ear, and Bashir wondered when he had moved so close. He had been working several meters away. "Work!" Bashir did as he was told. The changeling craned her head around once to look at him and smiled, even as she continued to beat the Frenchman. She simply walked away when she was done with him and Henri didn't move. Bashir wanted to run to him and see if he was alive, but the *kapo* was watching and he shook his head. He went on yelling at some others to work harder, but he kept his eye on the SS. Bashir had to wait until the midday meal before he could see to him. The *kapo* had chosen two others this time to get the soup, and Bashir was grateful, even if it meant he had to stay and work under Heiler's gaze. Henri was alive, but he was still unconscious when Bashir reached him. A gash in his head was bleeding profusely. The entire left side of his face was swollen and colored red and black. Several of his ribs were broken, and Bashir thought his right forearm might be, too. He awoke when Bashir moved him--at the *kapo*'s order--to a slightly more sheltered area. He was groggy still and didn't say anything. He just laid still and let Bashir feed him his soup. Most of it dribbled out of his swollen lips, but Bashir didn't mind. He used a small cloth handkerchief that Max had organized and given to him to dab at the gash on Henri's forehead. He packed snow around his injured arm. The SS dog- handler came into view before he could do more, and the *kapo* called him away. Piotr and Szymon were waiting for him when he returned. "How often are the selections?" Bashir asked Szymon urgently. Szymon shook his head and shrugged. He knew that Henri would probably die. "We will take him tonight to the hospital." Bashir stared at him suspiciously. "I thought the hospital was dangerous." Szymon nodded. "Is. But the doctors try to help. Maybe they will make him warm." Bashir understood. They would try to make him comfortable at least. While the hospital had little access to medicines and equipment, they did have more than he had in the barracks. Maybe they could help Henri before the next selection came. It was a gamble, but Henri would die either way. They had to take the chance. Bashir tried to keep his eye on Henri's form as they worked the rest of the day. The *kapo* did his part, too, though some of the other prisoners didn't appreciate it. Whenever one of the SS got too close to Henri, he would scream at another prisoner, hitting them with his stick. It worked. The SS looked to see what the commotion was and Henri was forgotten. As the sky grew darker, it became harder to see him. But then it was also harder to work. The whistle blew and everyone lined up to be counted. The *kapo* called for two men to carry Henri, and then they started back toward camp. Bashir wanted to be in line near his injured friend, but Szymon caught his arm. "I think sometimes you want death," he sneered, forcing him to stay several rows behind Henri and his bearers. Bashir worried about the jarring cadence of the double-time march and what it was doing to Henri's head wound. "When do we go to the hospital?" Bashir whispered when the SS weren't looking. "After *Appell,*" Szymon whispered back. *Appell* lasted longer than ever, it seemed, until Bashir could count three stars between the ever present billows of smoke. Two more men from the kommando dropped at roll call and were placed on the ground near Henri. As soon as the signal was given, Szymon and Piotr moved to collect Henri. Bashir followed. Before they moved him, Bashir checked Henri's pulse. It was racing, but his breath was shallow. He was awake, but his eyes wouldn't focus. Bashir nodded and the two Poles lifted him off the ground with some difficulty. "We must go quickly," Szymon told him. Bashir nodded. The roll call had cut into their time before curfew. All of them were weak from hunger, and they were giving up their dinner ration to take Henri to the hospital. But Bashir didn't care, or at least he tried to ignore it. His friend and patient was more important. And he felt responsible for his condition. Heiler was his problem. She had probably attacked Henri not because he had been talking, but because he had been talking to Bashir. When they approached the hospital area, Bashir was amazed by the length of the lines waiting to get inside. For a place with such a reputation for danger and death, the prisoners still wanted in awfully bad. "Why do they come here?" Bashir asked. "Aren't they afraid?" "They are more tired, more hungry," Szymon told him, setting Henri down on the ground beside them in line. "No working here." Piotr whispered something to him and he nodded. "You go back. Get food. You can give with Piotr. Max, maybe, has something, too." Bashir looked at Henri, who was unconscious again. His head was still bleeding, though less so because of the cold. He didn't want to leave, partly because of Henri and partly, he had to admit, because of the hospital. He wanted to see what was in there. What could they do? What kind of instruments did they have? The doctors tried to help, Szymon had said. He wondered how much of a difference they were able to make. But Piotr's eyes pleaded with him. He was hungry. Going without a meal could be deadly. And Bashir was the logical choice. He couldn't carry Henri with only one arm. "Tell me *everything,*" Bashir told Szymon. He took one more glance at the line in front of the door and at Henri and headed back to the barracks. He only hoped the trip was worth it. He might arrive too late for any food. And he did. He made it to the end of the line, but the rations were gone by then. There was nothing else. Max saw him and waved him up on the bunk. His eyes showed his worry and relief that someone had returned. "*Wo ist Henri?*" he asked excitedly, helping to pull Bashir up over the edge of the bunk. "*Und Szymon und Piotr?*" Bashir didn't know how to tell him. "Heiler beat Henri," he said, and he pounded on his own leg with his fist to show the meaning of his words. Max's eyes fell to the bunk, but he nodded. "*Ist er tot?*" He ran a finger across his throat to make his point. Bashir shook his head. "Szymon and Piotr took him to the hospital." Max, of course, didn't understand. Then Bashir remembered that Vlada had called him a doctor. The word was the same, at least in Czech. He touched the six-pointed star sewn to the chest of his coat. "Jewish doctors." "Ah," Max said and nodded. He was silent for a moment. And then he seemed to notice something. He grew excited. "*Du hast nicht gegessen?*" he asked. But, now it was Bashir's turn to stare at him without understanding. Max didn't try to explain. He knew the answer to his question. Instead, he unwrapped his coat and removed a small loaf of real bread and his own tiny portion of sausage. He shielded it from the view of others as he held it out to Bashir. Bashir's mouth began to water just looking at it, but he held up three of his fingers. "Three," he said. "For Szymon and Piotr, too." Max nodded and broke the bread into three parts, two of which he wrapped up again. Then he did the same with the sausage. It left only a few bites for Bashir, but he was glad for them. He knew the danger Max faced in smuggling it in. And he knew the sacrifice Piotr and Szymon were making to take Henri to the hospital. He wouldn't steal the food from them. They returned just before the *Blockalteste* locked the door. Max only had time to hand them their food before the lights were put out and everyone was ordered to sleep. Bashir wanted to ask about Henri, but there was no time. Szymon and the others were exhausted. And so was he. Despite his concern for his friend, he fell asleep quickly and dreamt he was at one of Captain Sisko's dinner parties. 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/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek .creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? 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