Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 05:05:17 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 

Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 30/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

                      Chapter Thirteen

      This time, they all went.  Every 'Aryan' on the ship.
Thomas was included, though it was understood that women
would have less chance of finding Bashir.  Men guarded men in
Auschwitz.  Women guarded women.  In Birkenau, that would
make a very large difference.  Women and men were kept in two
different sections of the compound, separated by electric wire.  In
the main camp though, three kilometers down the road, things
were not quite so segregated.  Thus the women of the *Defiant*
would concentrate their search there, getting in wherever they
could, even if it only meant searching camp records.

      Thomas had to admit to a small sense of disappointment,
though it embarrassed her.  It wasn't that she was excited to see
people suffering.  That certainly wasn't the case, just as it hadn't
been the case in the ghetto.  She'd dreamed about that again last
night.  The same bearded man visited her each time she dreamt
about it.  Sometimes he accused her of some sort of betrayal,
others he begged her for his life, and sometimes he shouted
horrible angry things at her from somewhere in the trees.  Dressed
as a partisan in rough clothes, he'd rush at her, brandishing his
German Luger.  She awoke before he fired.

      Thomas shook her head and forced the remnants of the
dream away and continued with her thoughts as if they hadn't been
interrupted.  She was disappointed because she'd always read
about Birkenau.  Auschwitz I was a relative haven by comparison,
with its one tiny gas chamber and its sturdy brick buildings
separated by organized streets.  She forgot all that though as she
materialized on one of the dim stone-covered streets.  The smell,
like Novak and the others had brought back on their uniforms,
came to her immediately, despite the seeming peace of the still
pre-dawn morning.  There was death here, too.  And then she
remembered.  She'd read a lot about this place too.  About Block
11, the Death Block with its standing cells and punishment
brigades.  About Block 10, where the SS doctors performed
painful medical experiments on helpless, powerless prisoners.
About public hangings on the *Appellplatz.*  About the sign
above the gate that promised work would make them free.

      This was where, in years and centuries to come, people
would come to see the roomfuls of suitcases and shoes and brushes
and artificial limbs and hair and empty cans of Zyklon B.  This
would be the museum, the place that would bear witness to the
deaths of over one million people that died in all of Auschwitz,
from here to Birkenau, to Monowitz and all its factories full of
forced laborers.  This was history.


      It had been still dark when they were called out for roll
call.  No morning rations or lines to the latrines.  The Germans
were upset about something, though they never bothered
explaining it to the thousands of gathered prisoners.  A light snow
began to fall just as the sun's haze began to glow on the lower side
of the clouds of smoke above their heads.  Still, they were not sent
away for work.  The *Appellplatz* was silent; the counting was
done.  Except for the biting cold and the fatigue in his legs, Bashir
could almost count it a peaceful morning.  But every few minutes
the silence was broken when one of the prisoners fell or coughed
or shivered too noticeably.  He was pulled from the ranks and
beaten severely and left to lie with the dead who had been dragged
out of the barracks when the *Appell* started.  The beaten one
moaned for a few minutes more and then silence regained its
dominance.  Bashir could almost hear the snow as it fell to the
ground and half-melted in the mud at his feet.

      While he stood, Bashir tried to count the days since he'd
last seen the *Defiant.*  He tried at first by counting forward from
the fifth of February, the day he'd been transported.  But he lost
too many days right at the start.  The train ride had been a blur.
Was it two days or three?  Perhaps four?  And then there was the
other camp, Block 11.  He'd barely been conscious those days,
and, though he had vivid memories of his time there, he really
couldn't be certain how long it had taken.  And after that the days
and weeks had simply melted together into near monotony broken
up with only a few significant incidents.  But who was to say on
which day they had occurred?

      Still, he could estimate.  If he counted only three days for
the train, he still ended up with five weeks.

      Five weeks.  More than a month.  Captain Sisko, if he was
still alive, would had to have left by then.  And if the changeling
had been telling the truth, and Sisko was dead, then Worf would
surely have left him behind.  Bashir was only one man, lost and
buried deep in the Nazis' system.  After five weeks, they'd have to
assume he was dead.  The *Defiant* would turn back, returning to
his century without him.  And he couldn't really blame them.
Captain Sisko would have held out as long as he could, but
eventually he would have had to weigh the good of the crew over
the hope of one man.  Dax might have protested.  O'Brien
certainly would have.  But in the end, Bashir knew the captain had
made the right choice even though it left him stuck in this hell.
Liberation was still two years away.  He'd never last two years.
And the changeling would finally be rid of him and seek her
amusement and revenge elsewhere.  Maybe Hitler would win the
war and there would be no liberation.  Changelings could live for
hundreds of years.  There was no end to what she could do against
an unsuspecting population.  What kind of future, Bashir
wondered, had the *Defiant* returned home to?


      Novak had realized, by looking at the map provided by the
ship's computer, that Auschwitz was much larger than Treblinka.
But it was something different down on the surface.  It wasn't
even Earth any longer.  It was some decrepit, foul planet all its
own, where the mud never froze and the air was barely breathable.
There was no sky, only billows of black smoke, pouring ash mixed
with snow on the landscape.  The majority of its inhabitants were
humanoid but not human.  They looked more like stick figures.
Some didn't have all their clothes, and their arms or legs, bones
barely covered with a thin layer of skin, showed.  Their feet,
though, were huge, caked with the sticky mud of the place.  It
seemed impossible that their thin legs could even lift them.

      The other inhabitants looked human, fit and warm in their
long, dark coats.  But looks were deceiving, Novak mused, for
these were the aliens.  These were the monsters that had ceased to
be human, not the stick men who stood stiff against the wind as
they were counted.

      The men began to mill around, breaking their ranks and
forming new ones.  There were more than a thousand of them,
already more than at Treblinka, but this was just one group, in this
one camp.  There were dozens of other groups and hundreds of
other camps in the Auschwitz complex.  This was just Birkenau,
and Novak could see that it would take weeks just to search this
one with the number of Aryans in the *Defiant*'s crew.


      As Lieutenant Jordan watched the roll call break up, he
decided that even his phaser would do him little good here.  It was
just too big.  They'd need an army of phasers or the *Defiant*
itself to take out the Nazis here and their Ukrainian guards.  But,
of course, that wouldn't happen.  The timeline, as horrible as this
part of it was, had to be protected.  Bashir, if he was here, if he
was still alive, would be the only one they'd rescue.  But as he
watched the kommandos move out and past him, Jordan wished
they'd found him at Treblinka.  It would be worse than trying to
find a needle in a haystack here.  It was like finding the one piece
of hay that was only three inches long in that haystack.  No
magnet would help.

      There were just too many people to see all of them as they
passed.  The ones in the middle seemed to turn their heads slightly
as they went by.  *Afraid to be noticed,* Jordan decided.  It would
be easier as a prisoner, he realized.

      Just then there was a commotion toward the head of the
group.  Jordan turned to look in that direction, knowing that he
would miss the faces of the group as they passed.  Still he couldn't
help it.  He watched in horror as the SS guard for the group
grabbed one of the prisoners nearest him, yanking him out of the
line as the others still marched past.  The SS beat the man in the
face until he could no longer stand on his feet.  He was hanging
there by the arm when the other SS man released the dog.  The
first SS laughed and let the man go.  He moved away and watched
as the man screamed.  The dog had him by the crotch.

      Jordan turned away, away from the man and from the
group.  He just couldn't watch anymore.  He felt his breakfast
working its way back up his throat.

      "Something wrong?"  The voice came with a hand that
touched his shoulder.

      Jordan turned quickly to see who had spoken.  It was the
SS, the dog-handler.  He was tall and looked down at Jordan with
considerable concern.  Or was it suspicion?  Jordan knew he
couldn't look weak to the man.  He had to swallow to keep from
throwing up.  But his hand was still on his stomach.  "Ulcer," he
lied.  "I should have been more careful what I ate for breakfast.
Too much coffee sets it off."

      The dog-handler nodded, but he looked over toward his
dog, keeping him in sight.  "Yeah, but you have to have the coffee
to be awake this early.  Some days we're up before the sun."

      "Our sacrifice," Jordan said, staring coldly at the man, "for
the Fatherland."  He really wanted the man to go away.  He didn't
want him to ask any questions, like where he came from and what
he was supposed to be doing standing there by the gate.  Still, he
had an idea.  Jerking his head toward the end of the moving
column, he asked.  "Where are these Jews from?"

      The dog-handler saw that his dog was finished and began
to move away.  "Oh, from all over," he called back.  As he
rejoined his dog, it became harder to hear.  The victim of the
attack lay motionless, a mass of black and white stripes covered
with red, on the ground.  "They say we've even got English in here
somewhere."

      Jordan nearly jumped and hoped he'd heard the man right.
English.  Had he said one or more than one?  He couldn't tell.
Still, the Germans never conquered England, never had a chance
to deport its Jews.  It had to be Bashir.  "Where?" he asked,
realizing that it could draw suspicion.  Like the prisoners, he
should try not to be noticed.

      Still, the dog-handler was too far away and the sloshing of
feet in the mud was too loud.  He didn't quite hear.  "Stay off the
coffee!" the SS yelled, patting his stomach and smiling widely as
he stepped over the dog's victim.

      Jordan tried not to run as he hurried toward the nearest
barrack building.  The workers were gone now.  He hoped it would
be empty.  He stepped inside and looked around, checking under
all the bunks and even climbing up onto the brick wall that ran
down the middle and led to a chimney on one side.  From there, he
could see the tops of the bunks.  He ran the length of it.  And when
he was satisfied that there was no one inside, he jumped down,
pulling his comm badge from his pocket as he did.

      "Jordan to *Defiant,*" he called.

      "*Defiant,*" Sisko's voice answered.  "Are you secure,
Lieutenant?"  He sounded concerned and surprised.
Communication with the ship was dangerous and therefore only
for emergencies.

      "Yes, sir," Jordan answered.  "No one can see or hear me.
I think he's here, sir."

      There was a slight pause.  "How do you know?"

      "One of the SS, he said there were English here," he said,
rushing the words out.  "I couldn't quite hear him, so I don't know
if he was talking about one man or more, but he definitely said
English."

      "Hold on, Lieutenant.  Prepare for transport."


      Thomas heard a clicking sound.  She'd just entered the
yard between Blocks 10 and 11.  The guard at the gate had
questioned her, but she'd put him off by saying she'd been ordered
there by the Gestapo.  He seemed satisfied and let her in.  Still
there were others in the yard.  Three prisoners were hanging by
their wrists on tall posts near the covered windows of Block 10.
And the guard could still see her from his place near the gate.

      The clicking came again and she made her way
purposefully toward one of the doors of Block 11, where the
Gestapo would be.  She hoped there was no guard on the other side
of the door.  She stepped up to it and tried the knob.  The door
opened easily.  It was unlocked and unguarded.  She'd been lucky.
She closed it quickly and then edged forward to check the
connecting hallway.  Looking right and left, she pulled her comm
badge from her pocket.  She pressed it, opening the channel and
then held it close to her mouth as she moved back toward the door.
"Thomas here," she whispered.

      "Clear for transport," came the answer on the other end.

      She checked the hallway and door again and then replied.
"Clear."

      The transport came quickly and within a minute, she was
standing on the *Defiant.*  Sisko was there and so was an SS
officer.  He removed his hat, and she could see that it was Jordan.

      "We need to know if there were any other English people
in Auschwitz," the captain told her.

      Thomas wasn't sure why they were asking now, why they
had pulled her from the planet as if it was some emergency.  "I
don't know," she admitted.  "There could have been, I suppose.  If
they were traveling and got caught in one of the wrong countries.
There was even an American here at one point.  None were taken
from England directly, I'm pretty sure.  There were POW's, but I
think they were in Monowitz."

      "One of the SS said something about English being in the
camp, in Birkenau," Jordan explained for her.

      Thomas understood now.  They were asking if it was
Bashir the SS had spoken about.  "Well, it could be him," she said.
"We know he was on one of those transports.  He had to have
come here or to Treblinka.  And I really doubt he'd be sent to the
gas right off.  He's young and intelligent, and he was very healthy
at the time."

      Sisko watched her carefully, but there was a light in his
eyes, a brightening of his features.  "Then it sounds like," he
stated, "the odds have turned in our favor."


      The changeling watched him as he worked.  Bashir still
stumbled occasionally and fumbled with his tools.  But he was
more alert now, no longer the Muselman.  He didn't seem to want
to die anymore, though it could hardly be said that he was trying to
live.  He was more passive about it all.  Death or survival seemed
to weigh equal with him.  And Heiler wasn't quite sure what to do
with such an attitude.  When he had wanted to live, she made him
wish for death.  When he wanted to die, she had denied it.  But
now he was teetering precariously on the border between the two,
and she didn't know which way to push him off.

      Still, she had more practical worries for the moment.  The
work on this crematoria was almost done.  She would have to find
him a new kommando before one of the other SS did.  She also
had to worry about transferring Heiler.  She had to keep Bashir in
sight.  It would be too conspicuous to merely abandon Heiler's
persona and take another in the new kommando.  There was no
way to explain Heiler's disappearance.  So she had to pander to
her so-called superiors tomorrow and beg for the transfer.

      Tonight she had to bribe one of the other SS to trade with
Heiler.  They were still building barracks for expansion in the
other parts of the camp.  She would try taking Bashir there.  The
work would be difficult for him, but not impossible.  No more than
the work he was doing now.  Of course, he wouldn't know the
*kapo* there.  He might not get sent to retrieve the soup everyday.
The *kapo* here was easy on him.  She'd make sure that wasn't
the case in his new assignment.  She didn't want him to die, but
she didn't want him to be too comfortable either.


      Things went differently the next morning.  The search was
now concentrated on the men and Birkenau, though the women
would still search key areas, such as the prisoner records.  Thomas
was sent back to Block 11 and its Gestapo files.  Barker was glad
that he would not be dealing with the *Sonderkommando* this
time.  He'd had nightmares about it from Treblinka.  This time,
Novak had drawn that card, though he had other areas to search
first.  The break up of roll call was still their best chance for seeing
all the prisoners, so most of the *Defiant*'s away team were
stationed near gates and intersections of the camp's roads.
Afterwards they would branch out to other areas.

      Barker watched the work group passing him.  They seemed
healthier than the others he had seen.  Their faces were not as
tightly drawn.  They weren't as thin, though they still dragged
their feet when they marched.  They were better dressed, too, not
in the mismatch of old, worn clothes with a stripe of paint on the
back, but in the gray and blue stripes.  They even wore regular
shoes, not clogs.

      They left through the main gate, marching right past
Barker.  The group he'd watched the day before had only a few SS
to guard them.  This one had more and they were headed in the
direction of the main gate.  Barker could guess where they were
going from the map he'd had to memorize.  The railroad line.
They were going to greet a new transport.  They were better
dressed and healthier so as not to frighten the new arrivals.

      A few of the prisoners looked over at Barker as they
passed.  Barker ignored them and concentrated on the taller ones,
straining hard to match their faces with the doctor's as it might
look after five weeks in this place.  Then he decided it wasn't
worth the effort.  These men were thin but not emaciated.  Bashir,
if he was among them, probably wouldn't have changed so much.
He'd always been thin.  Bashir would look like himself, and
Barker didn't see him here.


      Szymon coughed.  It happened just after the roll call had
been counted.  He'd stood in line for two hours without making a
sound or movement, and it took Bashir by surprise.  It was a small
cough, barely audible though it did cause the SS to stop in his
tracks.  Bashir watched him out of the corner of his eye.  The man
scanned the ranks of prisoners looking for the source of the sound
he had heard, but he seemed unsure of the direction.  Bashir
prayed Szymon wouldn't cough again.

      He didn't.  But if one was standing near enough, as Bashir
was, one could hear him struggling, nearly choking as he held it in.
The SS still watched the group warily though he resumed his
original path.  The roll call was released and Bashir and Szymon
both moved toward their kommando.  Szymon was slower though
than usual, and he cleared his throat as he ran through the crowds,
trying to get the coughing out of his system.

      Bashir looked around, trying to spot Heiler.  But the
changeling was far enough away that he didn't have to worry.  He
turned to Szymon, helping him along with his good arm.  "What's
wrong?" he whispered.

      Szymon looked back at him like he'd seen a ghost.  Bashir
realized that for all Szymon knew, Bashir hadn't spoken since
before the incident and Piotr's death.  Still, there was no time for
such considerations.  Szymon waved his hand away.  "Nothing,"
he lied.  "I'm fine."

      Julian didn't believe him.  He touched the man's face
before he could turn away.  It was hot despite the hours they'd just
spent in the cold and sleet.  "You have a fever," he said.  "You
can't work."  He needed to be in a hospital.  A fever here was
deadly, as was just about anything else.

      For a moment, Szymon became the man he had met the
first day at the barracks.  "*You can't work,*" he retorted,
pointing to Bashir's left arm.

      "Good point," Bashir said, conceding the argument.  They
would both work, no matter their respective conditions, because
work at least held the chance of survival.  Bashir wondered
though, if it was typhoid fever.  Would Szymon's sickness
endanger him and the other members of the kommando or the
barracks where they slept?

      There was no more time to discuss it, however.  The
kommando was formed and the *kapo* was beginning to count
them.  It was roll call all over again, but this one wouldn't last as
long.  In a few minutes, they would be running again, marching at
double-time to the nearly completed gas chamber where hundreds
would be slaughtered in the coming years.  Bashir never forgot
that.  He thought about it everyday as he passed out of the gate and
onto the muddy road.


      Lieutenant Barker had drawn the hospital this time, much
to his relief.  Anything had to be better than the extermination
areas.  Besides, the Nazis did try to match skilled workers with
their previous occupations.  They might have put Bashir to work
there.  Or he might just be a patient.  Either way, it was a good
place to look.  And with the insignia of an SS doctor, Barker
would have free reign to roam the buildings.

      He was surprised by the stench though as he neared the
buildings.  Hospitals were supposed to be clean.  He hadn't
expected it.  Though after he gave it a little thought, he wasn't all
that shocked.  The Nazis didn't care if the inmates lived in squalor
and died by the thousands.  Why would they care about letting
them have a clean, sanitary hospital?

      There was a line of people already waiting to get in.  Some
of them scattered as he approached, fearing his uniform.  Barker
let them go without a word.  He couldn't see yelling at them for
skipping out on their work details.  They had enough worries,
besides, none of them would dare question him.  They all stepped
back as he passed them into the doorway of the first building.

      All motion came to a complete stop when he did.  Those
who were standing, the doctors and orderlies, immediately came to
attention.  Those who couldn't stand watched him fearfully.  Some
even held their breath.

      "I'm very sorry, *Herr Obersturmfuhrer,*" one of the
doctors said, approaching with his head down.  His voice shook
slightly, barely perceptibly when he spoke.  "We did not realize
there was a selection today."

      "This isn't a selection," Barker answered, trying to sound
stern.  "I'm looking for one prisoner."

      The doctor raised his eyes at that and then immediately
dropped them again.  "What is his number, *Herr
Obersturmfuhrer*?"


      *Good question,* Barker thought.  If we knew that, Bashir
would be a lot easier to find.  "I don't know his number.  But I
think you would remember him.  He's an Englishman.  A doctor."

      The doctor didn't answer right away.  He was hesitating
and Barker saw it.  He had heard of Bashir.

      "Where can I find this prisoner?" Barker asked again,
raising his voice.  "Is he working here or not?"

      "He is no longer here, *Herr Obersturmfuhrer,*" the doctor
answered finally, rushing the words out.  "He was here only for
two days.  He treated minor wounds.  He was returned to his
barracks."

      Barker tried to keep the emotion out of his face.  This was
a major clue.  Bashir--it had to have been Bashir--had been here
before.  "Which barracks?"

      "I don't know, *Herr Obersturmfuhrer.*"  The doctor
spoke more confidently now.  "The *Scharfuhrer* who brought
him here did not give us much information.  He said he would
return for him in two days and he did.  The doctor did not speak
German or Polish.  We could not speak to him."

      *Damn.  So close.*  They'd almost been pointed right to
his barracks.  Barker tried another track.  "When did he leave?"

      "On Sunday, *Herr Obersturmfuhrer.*"

      Barker counted the days in his head, trying to remember
the calendar for this time.  It was Wednesday.  They had missed
him by three days.  *Only three days!*  They had still been in
Treblinka on Sunday. The wrong camp.  If they'd searched here
first, they might have found him.

      Barker risked a smile for the doctor.  "Very good.  Carry
on."  He could hear the sigh behind him when he turned on his
heels and left through the still open door.  Strangely, the lines of
prisoners were gone.  The yard in front of the building was empty
all the way to the barbed wire fence.


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
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