Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 05:05:33 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 


Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 31/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

           Chapter Thirteen -- Continued

      Szymon didn't look any better at lunch, though Bashir was
convinced now that it was not typhoid fever.  Without a better
examination, he couldn't be sure just what had caused Szymon's
fever, but like the man in the hospital, it could have been just
about anything.  The cold, hunger, dysentery, anything.

      Szymon wanted to take off his coat, but Bashir wouldn't let
him.  Szymon knew better anyway.  Taking off his coat would
draw attention.  Luckily for Bashir, Heiler did not seem to be on
duty today, but the other SS could still be a threat.  It was best to
work as quickly as possible and to keep quiet.  The one who stuck
out was the one who got beaten or killed.  The mass survived.

      When Heiler returned just after lunch, Bashir moved away
from Szymon.  He learned his lesson with Henri and then Piotr.
Heiler would kill any friends she knew he had.  That is why he had
stopped talking.  He didn't want her to think that Max or Szymon
were friends.  He didn't want them to die because of him.

      Heiler kept a close eye on him after lunch.  He was never
more than 20 meters away, and he constantly hurled insults at the
workers in German.  Occasionally he'd throw in an English one
for good measure, never forgetting to add the characteristic accent.
It made Bashir nervous, having the changeling so close.  He tried
to ignore her, but sometimes she'd come up right behind him,
yelling at him to work faster.  Toward evening though, she stepped
too close and when Bashir stepped back, he tripped over one of
Heiler's shiny, black boots.

      "Get up, you stupid pig Jew!" Heiler snarled.  But of
course he made it impossible to actually get up, kicking Bashir
when he sat up, or knocking his hand out from beneath him.  "You
have work to do!  Get up!"

      One of the boots landed directly on his shin with a force
that stung.  Out of instinct, Julian grabbed his leg.  She started to
plant another one, but was distracted when Szymon coughed
again.  It was a great hacking cough, this time, not a quiet one.
She stopped kicking Bashir and turned away toward the sound.
But by then it had stopped.  Bashir made sure he was standing
again before she turned around.  He was already back to work.

      His leg throbbed, but he found he could stand and walk on
it without much trouble.  It was bruised, but not broken, but he
couldn't stop to look at it to see how bad the damage was. Roll
call that evening was long, cutting into the prisoners' free time,
but he tried to look at it positively.  The cold air would help to
keep his leg from swelling.  Still, by the time he had returned to
the barracks that night, it had turned purple just where she had
kicked him and a knot had formed just below.  He packed it with
snow he gathered from near the barracks while he sat outside.  He
had to get the snow from right near the building, otherwise, it was
covered and mixed with mud from the prisoners' shoes.

      He got up when it was time to go inside.  It hurt more
trying to walk around the prisoners on the floor, but he managed to
avoid most of them.  Unfortunately though, he bumped his shin on
the bunk as he climbed up, sending pain shooting up his leg.  He
gritted his teeth until the pain subsided and then finished his
climb.  Once up on the bunks, Max gave him a piece of cheese he
had salvaged from the train, and he thanked Szymon for helping
him today.  Max smiled when he heard Bashir speak, but Julian
ignored him.  He didn't plan on saying anything more.

      Szymon still worried him though.  The cough had been
real.  His face was red even in the dim light of the barracks.  He
was sweating even though it was cold, and he refused the blanket
that had to serve all four men in his bunk.  He'd eaten the cheese
Max gave him though.  At least he still had an appetite.


      Jordan stepped inside the block with the others, the last of
the prisoners to go in.  One of the block functionaries locked the
door behind them, but he seemed to take no notice of the fit
stranger that had entered.  A few of the prisoners eyed him
suspiciously, but he simply eyed them back, checking their faces
to see if they were familiar.  He found a place to lie down on the
floor.  He didn't want to take one of the bunks away from the
prisoners.  He didn't want to make trouble.  He was in danger
enough as it was.

      He closed his eyes when the lights went out, along with
everyone else, but he didn't go to sleep.  He was waiting.  He
assumed they would all fall asleep quickly, and then he would
search the room more thoroughly, this time with a miniature
tricorder, specially made by Chief O'Brien.

      It had taken the better part of the evening to argue his case
with Captain Sisko.  Everyone agreed that it was too dangerous to
search for Bashir as a prisoner, but Jordan believed it was probably
the best way to find him.  He was just another man with a shaven
head and a striped uniform.  It smelled just like everyone else's
too.  He'd gotten the uniform from a dead man earlier in the day.
He'd finally convinced the captain that he understood the risk and
Sisko had allowed it.  But only at night.  He would only be a
prisoner after evening roll call and before the one in the morning.
Under no circumstances was he to be counted among the prisoner
population.

      It grew quiet quickly, just as he had planned.  But it was
difficult walking the length of the room without stepping on
someone else who had been sleeping on the floor.  One of the men
stirred as he passed, and Jordan had to stuff his tricorder back
inside his shirt pocket quickly.  But the man fell back to sleep and
Jordan moved on.  He had left his shoes on the floor where he had
supposedly been sleeping.  He felt the top of the brick wall that
divided the room, but it wasn't hot at all.  So, setting his tricorder
to warn him of any movement beyond tossing and turning, Jordan
climbed up onto the wall and began to scan the top bunks as he
looked for faces.

      He couldn't see everyone.  It was dark and some had their
heads turned away from him.  So he used the tricorder with them,
checking height and weight, and DNA readings.  Occasionally a
prisoner got up and nearly ran to the bucket at one end of the
barracks.  He returned after relieving himself and Jordan was
afforded a few more minutes to scan uninterrupted.

      The night was half over by the time he'd finished the top
two rows on each side of the barracks.  He stepped down off the
wall and began to scan the bottom bunk and the floors.  When he
was about a third of the way down one side, a small light in the
corner of his tricorder's display began to flash red.  He froze.
Someone was coming.  He checked the scan.  Whoever they were,
they were still fifty meters away, not even inside the barracks.  He
let out a slow breath and moved on, keeping a close eye on the
tricorder screen.

      He'd just finished when the tricorder showed the range of
whoever was moving as being inside the barracks.  But it was
mostly quiet.  The only sounds were the groans of some of the
men.  No one was up.  Jordan could even hear the wind howling
outside.  But he hadn't heard a door at all.

      And then he saw it.  Something long and black moved by
the door at the far end of the barracks.  The scanner showed
another behind him.  Then two more showed up.  And four more
after that.  It wasn't until one of them bit his toe that he actually
saw what they were.  Rats.

      It took hold of him and he instinctively cried out, waking
some of the others.  As he danced around, trying to remove the
rodent from his foot without stepping on anyone else, he shoved
the tricorder back into hiding.  Other men began to scream.  The
rat at his feet was easily half a meter long, maybe more.  And
Jordan wasn't counting the tail.  It was huge and it did not want to
release its hold.  Its claws began to dig into his foot as it tried to
hold on.

      Jordan stumbled backwards until he fell back into his
place, landing on his hard wooden clogs.  He grabbed one and
began beating the rodent with it.  It took ten good hits before it
decided it wasn't worth it.  Jordan kicked it away and fumbled
around his bundle for his coat.  Finally he just jumped back onto
the wall, taking his coat and shoes with him.  The rodents seemed
too busy on the floor to notice.  Jordan saw that those on the bunks
hardly moved, completely undisturbed by their fellow inmates'
torment.

      He contemplated calling the *Defiant* right then.  He'd
checked the barracks out.  No Bashir.  Just rats.  No reason to stay.
But one of them on the bunks was watching him.  Apparently the
noise had woken him up after all.  "Don't let the block elder catch
you up there," he warned.  "He's killed people for less."

      Jordan didn't know what to say.  "Thanks," he finally
managed.  The man turned over and went right back to sleep.
Jordan sat up there the rest of the night, holding his bleeding toe
and trying to decide just how he'd gotten himself into this.  He
didn't sleep.  It was too dangerous to sleep.

      His tricorder warned him with three clicks when it was
0400.  The rats by then were gone, or quiet, and the men had all
gone back to sleep, trying to catch a little rest before they had to
get up for work.  Jordan slipped on his coat quietly and tapped his
comm badge five times.  He counted the seconds before the
*Defiant*'s transporter beam caught him.  He didn't even make it
to ten.


      Dax stood inside one of the warehouses.  She'd been
transported there because it was empty, at least empty of people.
No one would see her beam in.  It was still early and the prisoners
had not yet come to work.  But it wasn't empty.  It held shoes.
 From floor to ceiling, from wall to wall.  Thousands, hundreds of
thousands of pairs of shoes.  Some were small, the shoes of
children who were still too young to walk.  Some were fancy,
shoes meant for a dance or social function but not for work.  Some
were summer shoes, some were winter.  Others were ordinary,
everyday shoes.  Some were brightly colored.  Others were simply
brown, the color of the leather used to make them.

      Dax had never seen so many shoes.  She thought about the
people she'd seen in Bialystok ghetto.  They had survived the
transports thus far.  They were still safe in the semi-freedom the
ghetto walls provided.  Hungry, but safe.  But had they lost their
children, their parents to places like this?  Were these their shoes?

      Dax had lived for seven lifetimes, most of them on Trill.
But some of her hosts had traveled extensively throughout the
Federation and now beyond.  She'd seen death.  She'd seen
famine.  She'd seen the devastation of the Cardassian Occupation
of Bajor and a whole planet inflicted with an terminal disease by
the Dominion.  But nothing yet had prepared her for those shoes.

      She stood there transfixed by the immense pile that even
spilled out the open doors.  She didn't move, not until she heard
the voices.  Yelling.  Someone was yelling.  Dax forced herself to
turn, leaving the shoes behind.  She stepped out into the dim
sunlight of Poland's winter morning.  The smoke was acrid here.
This area, Kanada, as it was called by the workers, was near the
back of the camp, near where they burned the bodies of the
gassings that took place in the main camp and in the abandoned
farmhouse here in Birkenau.  It was so near, she could see it from
this section of the camp.  She had only to walk a little to the north.

      Another building she saw was overflowing with suitcases,
another with what looked at first like straw.  As she walked closer,
she could see that it was hair.  Human hair, piled as high as the
shoes.  A worker passed her, head down.  She walked fast, but Dax
grabbed her arm.  "Where are the clothes taken after they're
sorted?" she asked.

      The woman had grown stiff when Dax touched her.  She
stood shaking now, afraid to answer.  She didn't even look up.
Dax quickly released her arm, hoping that she hadn't hurt the
woman.  The woman turned and pointed to another large
warehouse a little further down the road.  "Thank you," Dax said.
"You may go."

      The woman scurried away, obviously anxious to be out of
Dax's sight.  Dax wondered who she was, what kind of life she
had led before coming here.  Was she someone's daughter,
someone's wife?  Was she a mother?  Did she have to sort her
children's shoes?

      She turned away.  She couldn't help the woman.  Right or
wrong, this time had already happened and the woman belonged
here.  Only Julian could be saved.  Julian didn't belong.  The
building the woman pointed to was not far away, so she walked
there.  She didn't know exactly why she had asked about the
clothes.  She hadn't even known for sure there would be such a
place.  Perhaps she'd only find a large pile of clothes spilling out
the doors into the muddy streets just like the shoes.  But she felt
she should do it.  There were no men here working, not until the
next transport of shoes and clothes and hair came.  She would take
the time to have a look through the clothes.

      She was surprised when she entered to find an orderly
warehouse, with clothes hung from bars or folded on shelves.  It
looked more like a primitive store than had the other warehouses.
A single woman was working there.  She was startled by the
opening of the door, but she hurried over to Dax.  She dropped her
head and gave a report.


      Dax ignored the woman's words as she looked at the
hanging clothes.  There were fur coats and leather jackets, silk
shirts and ties.  Scarves and vests.  "Is there something in
particular you are looking for?" the woman asked, still not looking
up.  She sounded just like a store clerk, Garak in his shop, only she
cowered with fear even as she offered her services.

      "I need a gift," Dax said, making something up.  "I want to
just look around."

      "Of course," the woman said.  "If you find something,
please tell me so that I can mark it down.  If the inventory is not
correct--"

      Dax held up a hand to stop her, remembering her role.  "I
don't need you to remind me of what will happen if the inventory
isn't correct.  If you don't mark it down, I'll report you myself."

      The woman nodded and left, scurrying back to her work.
*Like little frightened animals,* Dax thought, and she was
ashamed that she invoked such fear.  But she knew it wasn't really
her.  It was the uniform and all the others who had worn it here.
Dax wasn't willing to hurt anyone, she was only sharing the
persona for awhile.

      She turned her back on the woman and moved further into
the warehouse.  She passed the coats and looked through the
jackets.  There were leather ones, and wool ones, jackets for
fighting the cold or for just conducting business.  There was
nothing unusual for the time.  She wasn't sure why she was hoping
to find Julian's jacket.  It had been five weeks.  His jacket may
have been sent back to Germany.  There was little chance that it
remained here, waiting for some SS officer to choose it as a gift.

      Still, she felt compelled to keep looking.  She moved on to
the shirts, skipping by all the silk shirts and regular cotton shirts.
There were sweaters, more like what she was looking for.  A
swatch of color caught her eye.  Blue, bright blue.  She knew it.  It
was the same color as her own uniform back in her quarters on the
*Defiant.*  She pushed the other clothes out of the way revealing
the colored shirt.  It was a long-sleeved, high collared shirt, with a
zipper running up the front.  And it was a material never seen
before in this time on this planet.  It was Julian's.

      "I want this," Dax yelled.  The woman hurried over.  She
looked at the shirt.

      She was a brave woman, Dax decided, because she didn't
bother to hide her obvious distaste for the fashion.  "It's not very
flattering, but it's sure to be warm."

      "It's an interesting material," Dax said.  "Have you found
anything else like it?  Maybe in black."

      "Yes, ma'am.  There was a whole suit like it," the woman
answered, showing some excitement.  "A very unusual outfit, if I
may."  She began to walk away, taking the shirt with her.  Dax
followed.  She went to a shelf loaded with folded trousers.  It only
took her a few minutes of sorting through the black ones to find
the pants to Julian's uniform.  Dax felt her eyes begin to tear, but
she fought it.  She wondered if maybe she had passed his shoes
earlier.

      The woman held the pants up for her inspection.  Dax
admitted they were unusual but made a show of feeling the fabric.
"My brother is a textile manufacturer.  He's always looking out for
something new.  He'll be very excited by this."  But she hadn't
seen the jacket.  "You said there was a whole outfit.  Was there a
jacket perhaps or a vest?"

      The woman thought for a moment and then remembered.
"Yes, a jacket, but it was damaged."

      Dax's heart jumped.  Had he been shot?  But she looked at
the shirt the woman still held.  No holes.  No blood.  "Damaged
how?"

      "One of the sleeves was missing," she answered.  "Unless
it was supposed to be that way.  It was a very unusual suit."

      "I want it for the fabric," Dax explained.  "Not the suit.  I'd
like the jacket, too."

      The woman looked up at her briefly and then dropped her
eyes.  Her voice fell to barely a whisper.  Fear had returned.  "It's
not here, ma'am.  It was damaged.  It couldn't be repaired.  We
didn't have the fabric."

      Dax stopped her again.  "Where is it?"

      "With the scrap, ma'am."

      Dax thought for a few moments.  She didn't really need the
jacket.  She hadn't needed the shirt or pants either.  It was just that
they were Julian's.  She wanted to take them home.  She wanted
the jacket, too, no matter how many sleeves it had.  "Find it.  You
have until this evening before roll call.  I'll return for it and those
things, wrapped, if you don't mind."

      "But ma'am, I'm supposed to . . . ."  The woman was
stammering now.

      Dax ignored her arguments.  She had the uniform.  She had
the power.  "Then get someone else to look for it.  One day.  If you
can't find it today, then I'll just take those.  But I want her to look
hard for it."  She looked at the woman.  She was neither frail nor
overly thin.  *They must get more food here,* she thought.  Still,
Dax didn't know what else to offer the woman for incentive.  "I'll
give you each a loaf of bread if it's found.  Not that stale garbage
you usually get.  A fresh loaf.  One for each of you.  You can eat it
or trade it.  I don't care.  But I want the fabric."

      She waited for the woman to nod, and then turned on her
heels and walked out the door.  She sighed once the door closed
behind her.  She felt ashamed for bullying the woman but
exhilarated at finding Julian's uniform.  They could know for sure
that he was here, at least.  Or he had been here.  Either way, they
were getting closer.  She felt now that they would find him.  Dead
or alive.  They'd find him or find out what happened to him.


      Max lifted one of the bags and threw it down from the
truck.  He'd already fumbled through it at the platform.  There was
no food inside.  None of the bags he'd found had any food.  The
people on the train must have been very hungry.  Perhaps they had
come from a ghetto, half-starved before they arrived.  Or maybe
the other prisoners had simply gotten to the food first.  This one
was a bag full of clothes, summer clothes for children, a towel and
wash cloth for cleaning and an extra pair of shoes.  There were
other things, trinkets, memories, but Max hadn't had time to look
at everything.  He wasn't supposed to be looking through them at
all.

      As he grabbed the next bundle--a bundle of blankets, dirty
and smeared with filth, but still warmer than anything he had in
the barracks--Max looked up at the complex of buildings that
housed all those things they removed from the trains.  Perhaps
Hana's doll was there somewhere or the pictures from his
wedding.  Sophie's hair.

      Max pushed the thoughts out of his mind.  Memories like
that only caused pain. He threw the blankets down and reached for
the next bundle.  But he still looked at the buildings.  A door
opened.  An SS woman walked out.  But she didn't walk like an
SS.  She walked like a woman.

      She was tall.  The hair under her cap was dark.  She turned
to where Max was working.  She was not so far away that Max
couldn't see her face.  She was attractive, with a slim face and
expressive eyes.  Max was drawn to those eyes.  They expressed a
lot of things as they watched the men working.  None of them was
hatred.

      She walked closer, turning her head as she scanned each
man working.  Everyone who saw her worked faster.  Pretty or not,
she could kill any of them for being lazy.  But Max kept watching.
She didn't yell at them.  She didn't say anything.  In fact, she
seemed to be looking for something, or looking for someone.  All
the others turned away from her, trying to be nothing more than
the baggage they worked on.  But Max had the feeling it wouldn't
be a bad thing to be the one she was looking for.  Still, he knew
enough not to push his luck.  No one got that uniform easily.  He
put his head down and worked too, but he watched her from the
corner of his eye.

      She stayed there the whole morning, walking from one end
of the area to the other.  When it was nearly time for the noonday
meal, she turned slowly away.  She took a few steps, but stopped.
She turned back and caught Max's eye as he watched her.  He
froze.  His mind told him to work, to work harder now than he
even felt he could.  But his body just wouldn't move.  She held
him there for a minute in her eyes.  Then she sighed and turned
away again.  She disappeared from view, and Max went back to
work.


      Bashir checked his ankle when they sat down for lunch.  It
would be too dark by the time they returned to the barracks.  He
wanted to see it in the light.  But he didn't want the SS to see him
checking it.  Heiler, of course, knew the extent of his injuries, but
the other SS might not have.  If he did, he might label him unfit
for work and Julian would go to the gas.  He waited until they were
away, eating lunch themselves, and then he pulled off his mud-
caked clog and lifted his leg to his other knee.  The original
swelling had gone down.  But the double-time marching and the
walking and work had jarred the shin too much.  The bruise had
begun to bleed again, and he could see the blood pooling on either
side of his ankle near the heel.  He couldn't see his ankle at all on
one side.  It was swollen.

      He finished his lunch, pouring the last of the foul, cold
soup down his parched throat.  It was time to work again.  But he
decided he would try the hospital again, after roll call.  If he could
get in, he was sure he could get a bandage.  There was nothing
much to do for the bruise except to wrap his ankle and stay off of
it.  Staying off of it was impossible, but wrapping was something
he could do.


      It was getting late.  Nearly the whole away team was
assembled.  Only two were missing.  Lieutenant Jordan had just
left as the others were returning.  Sisko worried about him after
the last night.  He'd come back with an injury and a story of a
meter-long rat that liked to eat people.  And yet he was still
willing to go back.  Sisko admired his dedication.  But he wished
he was the one to go instead.  He was a man of action, generally
speaking, and was not given to sitting around while others worked.
But he was black, and, for the first time in his life, that made a
difference.  It limited his ability to perform his duty.  It limited his
freedom, and he did not like it.

      Dax was the other one who had not arrived yet, and Sisko
worried about her more than Jordan.  Jordan had an explanation
for not being there.  Dax did not.  Something might have
happened.  Thomas had tried to reassure him.  The inmates
wouldn't dare hurt her, they were too frightened of her.  But Sisko
feared the Nazis, not the prisoners.  Every time his crew went
down, he worried that they would lose their cover, that someone
would ask them too many questions and they would end up in
Block 11 where the Gestapo interrogated its prisoners.  Thomas
had already told him what she heard in there.

      And Dax was late.  After fifteen minutes, Sisko was forced
to leave the transporter room and meet the away team in the mess
hall.  They were tired and hungry and wanted to get through their
debriefing so they could shower and go to sleep.  The days started
early down on the planet.  Sisko left word with the transporter
officer to tell him as soon as Dax called for transport.  He hoped
she would call soon.

      The mess hall was packed.   There were only a few empty
seats.  Most of the away team had stripped off their coats and
jackets and were sitting in their shirt sleeves.  They looked less
like Nazis that way.  Sisko appreciated it.  Kira was there as well.
She looked just as frustrated as he was.  He knew she wanted to be
on the planet, too.  But since women were less needed than
men, there was no point trying to cover her nose so she could pass
for Aryan.

      There was little new to report, unfortunately.  Bashir had
not been spotted in any of the work details they had seen.  A
cumulative record was being kept of each of the groups and their
possible destinations for work.  They didn't want to waste time by
searching the same kommando twice.  Half the group had given
their report by the time Dax's call came.  Sisko blew out a long
breath and then answered.

      "Nice to hear from you, Old Man," Sisko chided.  "You're
alright?"

      "I'm fine, Benjamin," her voice assured him.  "I'll meet
you in the mess hall."

      No one spoke as they waited for her to arrive.  They were
becoming quite a loyal bunch, Sisko noted proudly.  They had
been concerned, too.

      The door hissed open and Dax stood before them.  She was
still dressed as SS from head to toe, but she was smiling as if to
say, "See, I told you I was fine."  But her eyes didn't share the
amusement.  They carried instead a sadness in them, but also a
hint of hope.  She clutched a brown paper package to her chest,
hugging it tightly.

      She stepped inside and handed the package to Sisko.  She
didn't explain the gift, and she didn't sit down.  She was waiting
for him to open it.  "What is it, Old Man?"

      "Julian's," she answered in a small whisper.

      Sisko tore the wrapping open and was met with black
cloth.  He pushed the wrapping aside, absently letting it fall off the
table.  He was more concerned with the cloth.  He unfolded it and
held it up.  The gray, quilted shoulders of a Starfleet uniform
became visible first and then one of the sleeves fell out.  The other
sleeve was missing, torn away where the gray quilting met the
black cloth.

      Everyone was silent, and Sisko found he couldn't speak
either.  But his breath began to quicken in his chest and his face
became hot.  All the previous clues had pointed to the fact that
Julian was in the camp, but until now they'd had nothing
conclusive, nothing that would say it was definitely their doctor.
But there was no mistaking this.  The Nazis had him.  And Sisko
wanted him back.

      The blue undershirt was just beneath the jacket and Kira
grabbed it quickly.  She unfolded it and laid it out on the table.
Sisko noted that it still had both sleeves.  Kira was running her
hands over every inch, checking it carefully.

      "It's fine," Dax said, breaking the silence.  "I already
checked.  No holes, no blood.  It's fine."


To Be Continued....



-- 
--Gabrielle
I'd much rather be writing!

http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/trek/    The Edge of the Frontier
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Blog: http://www.gabriellewrites.blogspot.com

--
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