Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:58:12 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 


Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 24/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

           Chapter Ten -- Continued

      The first time she'd removed her spots for an away team,
she hadn't minded.  Though that had been a serious mission, there
was a lot of fun involved, running around Captain James T. Kirk's
*Enterprise.*  But yesterday and now today, it was disconcerting
when she looked at her reflection.  She admitted to herself, it
wasn't just the unmarked skin around her face, but also what she
was wearing.  She didn't recognize herself.  Her visage in the
mirror was not ugly, but it wasn't pleasant either.  To her at least,
it was eerie.  Still, she fit the part.

      Today they would be facing something much worse than
the few Germans they had run into the day before.  Today, they'd
have to delve into the Germans' bureaucracy.  That was
frightening in any culture.  She was glad she didn't speak German.
Novak would, in outward appearance anyway, be the senior officer
while on the planet.  He would do the talking, and he would be the
one to deal with the bureaucrats.

      She met Thomas at the transporter room.  She looked just
as eerie, Dax thought.  But she chalked it up to the ensign's mood,
which she figured was a mixture of excitement and curiosity
tinged with disgust and utter horror.

      Novak arrived shortly after.  "*Guten Morgen,*" he said
without thinking.  "Um, good morning, Captain."

      Sisko was there again to see them off.  "You should be
asleep, Benjamin," Dax scolded.

      He didn't look too tired really.  He smiled.  "I'll catch up
during my next break, Old Man.  Be careful down there.  Don't
spend too much time in the streets."

      "Of course," Dax acknowledged, stepping onto the
transporter pad.  "We'll be back before you know it.  Energize."

      She couldn't have been more wrong.  But then, it had been
an awfully long time since she'd had to contend with a
bureaucracy that actually dealt with paper records.  As slow as
computerized red tape could be, paper was a thousand times
slower.  And the people dealing with the paper weren't much
faster.  In fact they were all rather unhelpful in spite of the obvious
fear in their faces when confronted with Novak's imposing
Gestapo presence.  The first person they had met was a security
guard who enjoyed too much the power of his office.  He kept
them waiting and answering questions for nearly half an hour and
had concluded by calling to verify their information.  Only a quick
call to the *Defiant* had saved them.  Worf intercepted the
telephone call, verified their identities, and told the guard, in no
uncertain terms, to let them pass.  Then, of course, the guard had
to call ahead to warn those inside that the Gestapo was coming up.

      The receptionist they were sent to wasn't any better.  She
kept telling them to wait.  The man they needed to see wasn't in
yet.  They had waited for him for two hours while the receptionist
kept filling them full of some sort of fake coffee.  The real thing
was scarce apparently.  When the man finally did come, they were
still kept waiting while he had his ersatz coffee and got settled in
to his office.  Finally, they were allowed to see him, only to be
told, after forty-five minutes of explaining, that they were in the
wrong office.  They needed to see a different person, the regional
director, on the next floor up.

      When they got up there, the secretary informed them that
her boss had stepped out for lunch.  She suggested they do the
same and come back later that afternoon.  When Novak reminded
her that they were in a hurry, she pointedly reminded him that they
had not made an appointment.  He tried explaining to her that they
needed to see the director about an investigation, she became even
more adamant that it was impossible to see the director.  She
couldn't make him appear when he was at lunch.  She couldn't
help and they would just have to wait.  Dax had noticed that she
was nearly in tears at that point, so they did as she suggested and
went out for lunch.

      The streets themselves were filled with banners as the
university had been.  They were also full of uniforms, even on
children.  Thomas explained some of them.  Hitler Youth for the
children and teenagers.  SS, Wehrmacht, and other organizations
for the adults.  Even those not in uniform showed their support of
the system by armbands, lapel pins or flags hanging in their shop
windows.

      They found a quiet little restaurant a couple blocks down
from the Economic Administration Headquarters.  They chose a
dark booth in the back and Novak ordered for them.  The food was
actually quite good.  While they ate, Novak filled them in on what
had been said that morning.  He spoke in quick, almost harsh,
words.  Dax thought maybe she even heard an accent.  He was
obviously quite agitated by the stubbornness of the others.
Thomas explained that they were probably afraid.

      "Maybe going Gestapo was overkill," she said.  "We
terrify everyone.  They probably think we're investigating them."

      Dax decided it was best to let the *Defiant* know why it
was taking them so long.  Thomas then remembered that they had
no money for the meal.  No one was watching, so they had
O'Brien beam down a hundred Reichsmarks.  It would pay for
the meal and leave some extra for any other contingencies that
came up.

      When they returned to the Economic Administration
Headquarters, the regional director's secretary was even more
uncomfortable.  The director had been called away in an
emergency and wouldn't be back until next week.  It seemed that
Thomas was right.  Dax figured that the director had returned
while they were at lunch.  The secretary had warned him, and he
ran off leaving her to cover for him.  That was why she was so
uncomfortable.

      Novak tried to explain to her that they were not there to
arrest anyone.  They only wanted to find out where a certain item
had come from.  But she insisted that she couldn't help
them.  The director was out of town and she knew nothing.   And,
no, there was no one else who would know where the object came
from.  They would have to wait to see the director or find another
way to trace its origin.  She obviously preferred the latter.

      That there was no other way to trace it seemed of little
importance to her.  She just wanted them to leave.  With
assurances that the director would be back on Monday, she got her
wish.  Novak made an appointment for two in the afternoon on
Monday, and the three of them left.

      Novak had managed to keep his temper in check while in
the office, but once they beamed back up to the ship he let it go.
"That is crazy!" he exclaimed.  "How can anyone be so stubborn?
I told her we weren't after her or the director."

      "She was afraid," Thomas explained.  "Everyone was
afraid of the Gestapo.  Anyone could denounce anyone else.  The
Nazis didn't just terrorize their enemies.  They used terror as
domestic policy."

      Novak wasn't the only one who was disappointed.  It was
Friday down on the planet.  They would have to wait three days
before they could try again.  Sisko was upset as well, but he tried
to hide it.  O'Brien had managed to get the ready room's computer
in working order, so the debriefing had been moved to there.

      "So what are we going to do for three days?" Kira asked,
clearly annoyed.

      Sisko sighed and stood up.  "Fix this vessel.  We want to be
ready to leave once we do find him.  Unless someone can come up
with another way to scan for Bashir, we should put everyone to
work repairing the shields and warp engines and any other systems
we'll need for the jump.  For now, the three of you are back on the
roster.  Major, work with the Chief for assignments."


      Julian Bashir had decided that the changeling was
depressed.  She hardly seemed to notice him all that day, even
when he slipped in the snow and fell down narrowly missing the
wet cement.  Normally, she would have at least been entertained.
More often, though, she would have beat him for being clumsy.
But today she was letting her partner do the beating.  And he
couldn't be everywhere at once.  The result was, in a sense, a day
off.  The prisoners still had to work, of course, but not at the usual
pace.  Now they only worked hard when the human SS was around
or when Heiler seemed to be paying attention.  The *kapo,* as
usual, kept up appearances, yelling and haranguing the prisoners
with a ferocious intensity.  But it was only verbal and rarely came
to actual blows.

      The *kapo* again picked Bashir to carry the midday meal.
His partner was someone Bashir didn't know though he'd seen
him working at the site before.  But he hadn't seen him around for
the last few days.  The man said nothing as they trudged along the
road leading back toward camp.  Bashir wasn't surprised.  Szymon
was the only person in the kommando who would speak to him
now that Henri was in the hospital.  Bashir had tried to visit the
Frenchman, but found it to be impossible.  Each night the lines of
the sick and wounded waiting to get into the hospital were just as
long as they had been the night they had taken Henri there.
Visitors were out of the question.  Still, he planned to go and try
again after evening roll call.

      The man who was with him didn't look particularly well
himself, even for a prisoner.  His face was red, and he was
sweating despite the cold wind.  Fever.  He looked nervously at
the hospital area when they passed it and sped up his steps making
it hard for Bashir to keep up.  Bashir glanced over but couldn't see
anything out of the ordinary there.  The man was even worse after
they got the soup.  At first, the man had wanted to take the left
handle so that he could carry it with his right hand.  Bashir had
been forced to unwrap his hand to show him why it was
impossible for Bashir to take the right side.  And once that was
settled, the pace again became a point of contention.  Bashir
wanted, and needed, to go slowly.  It was difficult to walk, given
his flogging injuries, but it was worse with the heavy can.  Despite
his fever, the other man seemed in a hurry to return to the work
site.

      He tried to speed up again as they passed the hospital
block, but Bashir let his side of the can down to the ground,
stopping them both.  There was something out of the ordinary
going on there now.  A truck had been pulled up in front of one of
the buildings, and prisoners, without clothes or blankets, were
being carried out and stacked inside it.  Bashir thought at first that
they were dead, but he saw one of them still moving and then
another.  And he could faintly hear their cries for mercy.  It had to
be a selection, like Henri and Szymon had talked about.  An SS
officer in a white lab coat came to the door yelling something to
the prisoners loading the condemned into the truck.

      "*Chodz!*" his partner urged, shoving Bashir in the arm
until he turned away from the scene.  "*Musimy leciec w tej
chwili!*"

      Bashir picked up the can and continued walking.  He knew
that Henri would be put in the truck.  His injuries had been too
severe.  He thought of Henri and his dream of going to America to
see his sister.  He wondered if his sister would ever even know
what happened to him.  Who was there to even notice that he was
gone?

      This was not the first time that someone died in Auschwitz,
nor the first that Bashir had seen, but it was different this time.  He
had known the man, even if only for a few days.  All the rest had
been nameless pieces of history, and Bashir had felt a twinge of
guilt at the near-nothingness he felt at their deaths.  He was too
much surrounded by his own body to feel their pain and anguish.
He had too much of his own to deal with.  He had only been glad
everyday that he was not yet among them.

      But this time it was Henri.  Henri, who probably wasn't
quite dead yet, but who most likely had been piled in that truck,
stacked like so much firewood, on top of other bodies and more
placed over him.  He felt different this time, almost as if he was
with them.  But it didn't last long.  He had to pay attention to
reality.  He had to think about his feet.  Each step was perilous due
to his wooden shoes, the poor condition of the road, the heavy can
he carried, and his own stiff, unnatural gait.  And the other man
was still going too fast.  Henri would have to wait.


      The weekend passed uneventfully on the *Defiant,* with
the exception of the shields, which were currently functioning at
forty percent capacity.  Stevens expected they would be twice as
strong by the end of the day.  Everyone knew that still would not
be enough to protect the ship from the sun's radiation on the trip
back, but Stevens and O'Brien both concurred that there was no
indication that the shields would not be completely repaired by the
end of the week.  That left only the warp drive and, of course,
Bashir.

      This time, Thomas remembered to replicate a pad of paper.
It wouldn't be unusual for Gestapo agents to be taking notes for
their investigation.  But she had really wanted it to jot down notes
on what was being said for Dax.  Thomas caught enough words
and phrases of the German that Novak and the secretary were
speaking that she could understand the gist of the conversation.
Dax, without the universal translator, got nothing, and Thomas had
noticed how bored she had looked on Friday.  With the notepad,
Thomas could at least provide a running score, so to speak, of the
away mission.

      Ten minutes after they beamed down, though, she was sure
the Germans were winning.  The security guard detained them at
the door a second time, until Novak, in a stroke of genius,
complimented the man on his attention to duty and offered to put
his name in with the SS.  Perhaps he could be transferred to a
concentration camp, maybe Majdanek.  Poland was lovely this
time of year, after all.  Dax had smiled as she read the rough
translation Thomas offered her as they walked up the stairs to the
director's office.

      They had left the *Defiant* early, anticipating delays like
the security guard.  As a consequence, they were still ten minutes
early for their appointment with the regional director.  His
secretary looked no less nervous than she had before.  In fact, she
seemed more nervous.  Her hands shook and she kept wringing
them together.

      "*Sie sind fruh dran!*" she squeaked.  It was a short
phrase, and Thomas had no problem understanding it.  They had
surprised the secretary by being early.

      "*Nur ein paar Minuten,*" Novak replied.  He smiled
genuinely and tried to engage her in a little small talk.  She didn't
converse though, and only agreed to his assessments of the
weather and the city.  Novak sighed and then asked if they could
see the director now.  "*Konnen wir den Direktor sprechen?*"

      The secretary stopped wringing her hands and placed them
on her desk.  She stared at Novak with wide eyes and slowly shook
her head.  "*Ich furchte,*" she said, "*der Direktor ist nicht im
Hause.  Er fuhlte sich nicht gut.*"

      Dax tugged Thomas's elbow, so Thomas quickly scribbled
a interpretation which Dax read over her shoulder.  *He's not in,*
she wrote.  *I think he's sick.*

      Novak, who had been doing his best to appear kind and
patient with her, now rolled his eyes.  "*Wir hatten einen
Termin,*" he told her, reminding her of the appointment.

      "*Er hat seine Termine fur die ganze Woche abgesagt,*"
the secretary tried to explain.  Thomas wrote on the pad that the
director would be out all week.  No appointments.  "*Ich wuBte
nicht, wie ich Sie erreichen sollte.  Vielleicht konnen wir den
Termin umlegen.*"  The secretary reached for the appointment
book she kept at the corner of the desk.

      Novak leaned forward and put his hand on the book,
closing it.  "*Wir haben keine Woche Zeit.*" He was right.
Thomas knew they couldn't wait a week to see the director.  And
she also suspected that if they did reschedule the appointment, the
director would come down with some other sickness then.

      The secretary was speechless.  She didn't know what to say
now.  Novak smiled again.  "*Vielleicht konnen Sie den Direktor
telefonisch erreichen.*"

      The secretary looked at the telephone and then back to
Novak who was still smiling.  Her hand reached slowly to the
receiver.  Then she drew it back.  "*Er mag es nicht, wenn ich ihn
zu Hause anrufe.*"

      "Ich denke, daB er es weniger mogen wurde, wenn ich ihn
zu Hause anrufen wurde,*" Novak mumbled.  He stopped smiling
and sighed, rubbing his eyes.  "*Wurden Sie bitte aufstehen?*"

      Thomas didn't understand what Novak was getting at.  He
was clearly losing his patience.  Telling the woman to get up from
her desk had terrified her.  Very slowly, she stood.  Dax couldn't
say anything, but her eyebrows furrowed as she read the notepad.

      "*Bitte treten Sie ruber zur Couch.*"  Unfortunately,
Thomas and Dax were sitting on the couch.  Thomas nudged
Dax's elbow and they stood.  The secretary moved out from
behind her desk.  Tears welled up in her eyes, though she held her
head high and tried to hide her fear.  Novak didn't move, but
stayed put at the front of her desk, turning as she passed him.  She
looked back once at him, but he motioned for her to continue,
smiling again.

      Thomas was afraid she would faint, but she kept on, one
slow step at a time, coming toward the couch as she had been
instructed.  Thomas watched the woman's face, offering no
emotional reaction so that she might not blow her cover.  She was
supposed to be Novak's subordinate.  She had to support his
decisions.  Dax did the same, though she shot Novak a questioning
look.  From the corner of her eye, Thomas saw Novak reach into
his pocket.  He shrugged and then fired the phaser he now held.

      The secretary stopped when the beam hit her and just stood
for a few seconds, the fear in her eyes gone.  Then her knees
buckled and she fell.  Thomas let the pad and pen fall from her
hands and reached out to catch her.  "Only stunned," Novak
reassured them as they placed her on the couch.  "We were getting
nowhere."

      "You could have warned us," Dax said as she placed a
small pillow under the woman's head.

      "Sorry, Commander, but I don't think that was possible.
Besides, I have an idea."  He walked around the desk and sat in the
woman's chair.  "The director is *ill,*" he said, raising his
eyebrows on the last word, "and won't be in all week.  So maybe
we should go to him.  We just have to find where he lives."  He
started looking through the drawers of her desk.

      "By the telephone," Thomas offered.  She was on the floor.
Her pen had fallen under the couch.  "There should be some cards
or a list with phone numbers and addresses.  But he might not be
home.  He might be out of town."

      "Right," Novak exclaimed.  "Found it."  He started
flipping through the cards looking for the director's name.

      Thomas finally took hold of the pen and stood.  The skirt
she wore didn't make it easy.  It didn't offer enough movement for
her legs.  Dax was looking through the appointment book.  "He
had appointments this morning," she said.  "He hasn't had time to
leave town."

      "I'll bet he's home packing then," Novak said.  "Can I
borrow that please?"  He pointed to Thomas's pad.

      She let him have it and the pen too.  He'd found the
address.  "We should beam over.  He probably figures he has some
time before we'd come after him."

      "I guess he'll be surprised then," Dax quipped and then
called for the transport.

      They rematerialized in a small wooded park about a block
away from the director's house.  There was a car parked out front.
Its engine was running.  The driver inside saw them walk up and
seemed nervous, but he made no move to drive away.  A woman
answered the door.  She smiled broadly until she noticed that it
was the Gestapo.  "*Er ist nicht zu Hause,*" she stammered as
Novak took a step inside the door.  She staggered back away from
him as she kept trying to convince him that her husband was not
in.  She raised her voice so that anyone in the house was bound to
hear.

      "*Wir sind nicht hier, um Ihren Mann festzunehmen,*"
Novak tried to console her.  "*Wir brauchen nur ein paar
Informationen. Es ist sehr wichtig.*"

      By that time, the director's wife had retreated well into the
house.  Novak didn't let up, though he still spoke to her kindly,
explaining that it was information, not her husband that they were
interested in.

      Just then a man started down the stairs from the second
floor with a small suitcase.  "*Steht das Auto bereit?*" he said.
He froze when he saw the four of them.  His wife looked up to
him.  Her eyes plead for him to run away.  And he obeyed.  He
dropped the suitcase and ran back up the stairs.

      Dax was the first to react, and she bounded up the stairs
after him, taking the steps two at a time.  The wife began to cry
and tried to run herself, but Novak caught her.  Seeing that she was
under control, Thomas followed up the stairs.  Dax had the man
tackled at the top.  He tried to pull away and fight her, but he was
no match for Dax, who wrestled holosuite Klingons as a form of
exercise.  "*Wir wollen nur Informationen haben,*" Thomas told
him, hoping her grammar was correct.

      "*Lassen Sie meine Frau in Ruhe,*" he pleaded.  "*Sie hat
nichts damit zu tun.  Nehmen Sie mich fest, aber lassen Sie sie in
Ruhe.*" Thomas wondered just what it was that his wife didn't
have anything to do with.  Perhaps the director really did have
reason to fear arrest by the Gestapo.  Maybe he was keeping some
of the valuables from the camps for himself.  But it didn't really
matter, not to the mission at hand.

      "*Bitte, Herr Direktor,*" Novak shouted, "*wir sind nicht
hier, um Sie oder Ihre Frau festzunehmen.  Wir brauchen nur ein
paar Informationen.  Bitte kommen Sie nach unten.*"

      It took awhile, but things went more calmly after that.  It
took an hour and a half to convince the two of them that they had
nothing to fear.  By the time the clock on the wall cuckooed three
o'clock, the wife was offering them each second cups of the ersatz
coffee she was serving, and the director was ready to return with
them to the office.

      The driver had since left the premises and a taxi had to be
called.  It took another half hour to get to the office, but Novak
kept the director busy talking while Thomas and Dax sat quietly
staring out the windows at the city.  Thomas had been to Berlin
before.  It was a beautiful city, if more modern than most of the
other European capitals.  The Reichstag building, the Brandenburg
Gate, and some of the old churches still remained though, echoes
of this time and before.  It was odd to Thomas to see the streets
and buildings bedecked with Nazi banners.  She had imagined
them that way on her trips here when she was studying history.
She remembered standing outside the Reichstag, looking over at
the Brandenburg Gate and seeing, not the peaceful scene of
tourists and Federation citizens walking by past its columns, but a
long parade of black-uniformed SS goosestepping beneath it while
thousands of adoring Germans saluted from the sides of the street.
It had been just a flash, an instant of history thrust before her eyes,
before it faded to the familiar site of modern transport vehicles and
pedestrians.  She caught more than a glimpse of it this time as they
drove by.

      The secretary was awake and still afraid when they
returned to the office.  She stared at her boss, mouth wide, when
he walked in laughing at something Novak had said.  Thomas had
stopped trying to interpret it for Dax long before they had gotten
into the car.  It wasn't relevant to the mission anyway.

      "*Bitte bring unsern Gasten doch etwas Kaffee,*" the
director told her.

      Thomas shook her head and held up a hand.  "*Nein
danke.*"  She'd really had enough coffee for the day.  Dax did
likewise, mimicking her German perfectly.

      "*Ich hatte gerne welchen,*" Novak said.  He smiled
pleasantly, but the secretary still seemed suspicious.  She didn't
smile back.  She went to fetch the coffee, but every few steps she
would turn her head back toward them.  Thomas wondered how
much she remembered before she was stunned.  She must have
been very confused.

      "*Wir sollten etwas finden konnen,*" the director was
saying as he invited them into his office.  "*Kann ich die Akte
nochmal sehen?*"

      "*Selbstverstandlich,*" Novak replied, removing the
copied file from his pocket.  He handed it to the director who read
it over carefully as he sat down behind his large desk.  The
secretary never did return with the coffee, but Novak didn't
mention it.  He and the director were getting along well now.
Thomas was getting bored.  She couldn't contribute to the
conversation or the search for information.  Dax apparently felt the
same way.  She struggled every few minutes to stifle a yawn.  The
director didn't seem to notice, but Thomas did.  And it made it all
the more difficult for her.  Every time Dax tried not to yawn, her
body wanted to follow suit.

      It took several calls to a few other offices before the
director was able to offer them a lead.  With him on their side,
they now found that there was quite a bit more cooperation
forthcoming from the office.  Still, bureaucracy was bureaucracy
and the information about the badge was difficult to track down.
It was nearly five when they had the file in their hands.  Novak
borrowed Thomas's pad again as he jotted down information.
Thomas tried to peer over his shoulder, but he really was a tall
man and she wanted to keep her decorum.  She would have to
wait.

      The director had accompanied them to every office and
department.  Novak thanked him heartily, and the two even shared
an embrace before the director showed them to the door.  Once
outside and alone again, Novak dropped his smile instantly and
sighed.  "What a monster!" he whispered.

      "You seemed to get along rather well, Lieutenant," Dax
teased.

      "I always enjoyed acting, Commander," he replied.  "It's a
hobby."  They were heading toward an alley where they could
safely transport back to the ship.

      "Well?" Thomas asked.

      Novak stopped and stared at her.  "Well what?"

      Dax put on her most gracious, parental smile.  "The file,
the one we just spent the last three hours trying to obtain."

      "Oh, that!"  Novak seemed genuinely surprised.  He
handed Dax the notepad.  She shared it with Thomas.  Written in
large letters there was a date, 11 February, and one word:
Bialystok.  "That's all I got."

      Thomas was disappointed.  "Not even a transport number?
Or a destination?"

      Novak's answer was delayed by the transport.  He
answered, though, as soon as they rematerialized on the transporter
pad.  "No.  There wasn't anything else in the file.  Just that."

      "Just what?" Captain Sisko asked.  It was only then that
Thomas realized they had an audience.  Major Kira was there as
well.

      Dax handed him the pad of paper and then tried to report.
"It took awhile, but Mr. Novak got the director to cooperate.
Actually he went out of his way to be helpful."

      "This is the date they found the badge?"  Sisko was reading
the pad.  He handed it to Kira.

      "What's Bialystok?" she asked, looking to Thomas for the
answer.

      Thomas shrugged.  She had to look to the computer for the
answer.  "It's a city in northern Poland," she answered finally.
"There was a ghetto there for Jews."

      "No, sir," Novak said in reply to the captain's question.
"It's the date the badge arrived at the Economic Administration
Headquarters.  It's nearly a week after his arrest."

      "Well, I suppose that can be a good sign too," the captain
stated.  He didn't look encouraged though.  His jaw was still set
hard, and there was a puffiness around his eyes.  "Well, Ensign, do
you think a change in costume is in order?"

      Thomas looked at him for a moment before she realized
what he was saying.  "For Bialystok?  We'll need to see the
*Judenrat,* I would think.  SS?"

      Sisko nodded.  "How long until we're in transporter range,
Chief?"


      Heiler was back to his--her--usual self.  She'd found
excuses three times to beat him already this morning.  Bashir was
glad then when the midday meal came, and he would at least be
able to sit down.  But Heiler stared at him as he ate, never moving
or passing his attention to any of the other prisoners.  There was a
look of pure hatred burning in his false eyes that Bashir could see
from twenty meters away.  It scared him.  He wasn't sure why
exactly.  She had done nearly everything she could to him short of
killing him outright.  He lived in pain now, to one degree or
another.  She could only cause that to continue.  She couldn't
really make it worse.

      There was a commotion at the other end of the undressing
room.  One of the prisoners there had been caught by the other SS,
though Bashir didn't know why.  The dog barked incessantly and
ferociously.  He strained and struggled against the leash that held
him so that the SS man with him was nearly pulled off his feet.
Heiler stopped staring and actually smiled at Bashir before he
went over to offer his assistance.

      There were orders shouted in German.  The *kapo* joined
in, exhorting the prisoners to obey with his club.  The meal was
over.  They had to pour out their watery soup.  Bashir's back and
shoulders hurt from the beatings he'd received, but neither
compared to the feeling of hunger he constantly had.  It was
perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done to turn over his bowl
and watch the vile liquid fall to the snow.

      "*Aufstellen in Funferreihen!  SOFORT!*" the *kapo*
shouted.  He pulled men up from their seats and pushed them into
a line.

      "Something bad," Szymon whispered in his ear.  But
Bashir already knew that.  Nothing good ever came out of a
change in the daily routine.

      The line was made.  Sixty men, five abreast, minus the one
being punished, all turned to face the SS and the *kapo.*  Bashir
was in the second row, with Piotr and Szymon to his left.  The
subject of the punishment was already laid out over a pile of
bricks, poised for a lashing.  He was crying.  His shoulders shook
violently with his sobs.

      The SS dog-handler gave the *kapo* his whip.  But just as
the *kapo* raised it to begin the flogging, Heiler stopped him.
"*Ihr Funf!*" he shouted, pointing right at Bashir.  "*Ab nach
hinten.  Sofort!  Der Rest schlieBt nach vorne auf.*"

      Bashir didn't understand, but the man just in front of him,
and the two to either side of that man, moved quickly back
through the lines.  "*AufschlieBen!*" the *kapo screamed.  Bashir
followed the others and moved up.  They now had a clear view of
the sobbing victim.

      "*Jetzt.*" the dog-handler said, clearly impatient with the
whole proceeding.  The *kapo* raised the whip.

      "*Noch nicht,*" Heiler stopped him again. "*Und du
nicht.*" The *kapo* looked at him in confusion, as did the dog-
handler.  But Heiler was calm, he was even smiling.  "*Herr
Englander,* won't you join us?"

      Bashir froze.  He didn't know what she was after, but he
was sure now that he had been wrong.  It could be worse.  She
could always make it worse.  He didn't know why she would want
to have him flogged as well, but he also knew she didn't need an
excuse, not while she wore that uniform.  "Please," Heiler said,
becoming impatient.  He was pointing to the spot where the
*kapo* still stood.

      Bashir obeyed automatically.  He wanted to stop his legs
from moving forward, but he didn't know how.

      "*Gib ihm die Peitsche,*" Heiler told the *kapo,* still
smiling, only now the smile was broader.

      The *kapo* held the whip out to Bashir.  As he did, he met
his eyes.  There was pain there, and sadness and helplessness.
*One can only obey,* they said.

      Bashir found he couldn't breath.  "I can't," he whispered,
shaking his head.  His hand didn't move.

      Heiler moved in quickly, snatching the whip and pushing
the *kapo* away.  He grabbed Bashir's hand and thrust the handle
of the whip in it.  His smile was gone, and the evil was back in his
eyes.  "You will," he snarled.

      Julian looked to the poor man on the bricks.  Even now the
*kapo* was pulling his pants down, revealing his buttocks and
back.  He looked away, to the trees that lay beyond the barbed
wire.  And somewhere there, Julian found his spirit.  He turned
back and stood up to his full height.  He looked Heiler directly in
the eyes.  "No," he said, with a force that spoke of freedom.  He let
the whip fall to the ground.

      Heiler's arm snapped out, connecting with his face and
sending him sprawling to the ground.  "It wasn't a question," he
spat.  He yanked Bashir back up by the collar and again placed the
whip in his hand.  Then he pulled out his sidearm, placing the
barrel at Bashir's temple.  "You will strike him until we tell you to
stop.  Or I will shoot."

      Bashir stood straight again.  So this was it.  Now he would
die.  It was over.

      "Oh, it's not that easy, *Herr Englander.*"  The gun
moved from his temple.  It now faced behind him to where the
other prisoners were waiting.  "I will shoot one of them."

      Bashir felt his breath stop up in his chest again.  He closed
his eyes.  He couldn't.  How could he?  To beat a man, probably to
death.  It was impossible.  But he didn't doubt she would shoot.
He glanced over his shoulder.  His hand shook.  He didn't know
what to do.  He looked at Heiler, the changeling, and pleaded with
her silently.  She had won.

      The sound was deafening so close to his ear.  He looked to
the line as Piotr fell, a flood of red spilling onto the gray-white
snow.  Bashir fell himself; his knees buckled.  He braced himself,
sobbing tearlessly.  He saw Heiler from the corner of his eye raise
the gun to point at another.  Life had become an absurdity he
didn't want anymore.  But the choice was not his.  The gun was
pointed at another man.  Heiler's finger contracted against the
trigger, and all was lost.

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

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