afraid of what might happen to them. We know that news as well. Your Jews have not been rounded up, eh, not yet the pogroms and the arrests. But will their time come? Like ours?”
A whistle blew, sending them all back to work, ensuring Sam didn’t have to come up with an answer, for he had none to give.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The afternoon dragged by, monotonous and backbreaking work, splinters from the shovel handle digging into his palms, blisters breaking into blood and pus, keeping his head down, just shoveling, trying not to breathe in the stone dust kicked up by the drilling and cutting. When the whistle blew again, he trudged back to the barracks with his new bunkmates, and he understood the look of those prisoners he had seen. It was the look of hopelessness, of giving up and knowing one’s place. What was real was what was before one’s nose, and nothing else. To live was to get through a day without being beaten, without being shot, and to eat as much food as possible, all to live one more day.
That was the life inside the wire.
And to get out, to successfully escape, was to doom some stranger in his barracks to death. Up ahead was Barracks Six, and the line of men moved in. A Legionnaire he recognized from yesterday was standing by the door; he crooked a finger at Sam’s direction.
“You, cop.” The Legionnaire’s face was pockmarked from old acne scars. “Time to finish some business.”
The Legionnaire grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him out of line. Sam’s bunkmates cast their eyes down, as if afraid that by paying any attention they, too, would be dragged away. Sam shook off the man’s arm and the man laughed easily. “All right, pal, just come along and there won’t be no problem.”
He walked with the Legionnaire, each step heavy and painful, seeing a wooden and wire gate ahead of them open up, with watchtowers on every side. Now they went to the right, to a small concrete building that stood next to yesterday’s processing facility. Inside it smelled of chemicals and sweat, and an older man in a white coat and with wavy gray hair sat at a wooden table, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Nearby were bottles of ink and shiny instruments. The old man looked up and asked in a German accent, “He’s not a Jew, is he?”
“Nope,” the Legionnaire answered. “But he’s a guest here, just the same.”
The old man laughed. “Knew he wasn’t a Jew. Can always tell. All right, bring him over.”
At the man’s elbow was an open thick leather-bound ledger, and Sam saw rows of names and numbers. It was as if icicles were tracing themselves up and down his back. He knew what was planned for him. He was about to be branded as a hunk of meat, like the poor bastards around him, like his homicide victim.
“Hey, now,” the older man instructed. “Hold your wrist out. And be quick, I’m late for my supper.”
Sam didn’t move.
The Legionnaire slapped him. The pain shot through him. The Legionnaire urged, “Now, boy, hurry up!”
Sam glared at the Legionnaire, then rolled up the sleeve on his left arm. He held his wrist out, the man pulled a humming metal instrument close, a tattooing needle at the end of a handle, brought it down to Sam’s wrist, and he felt the harsh sting as the painful marking began, branding him forever as a prisoner—
Sam balled his other hand into a fist, punched upward, caught the old man under the chin. The old man grunted in shock, and Sam heard the Legionnaire call out. Sam grabbed the needle, seized the man’s right hand, pulled it forward, took the needle, and slammed it into the hand. The man howled and then the Legionnaire was on him, beating him, and Sam hurt as he punched and kicked, and through the pain, it all felt good.
He had fought back.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Hours later, Sam lay on his side, breathing shallowly, his ribs hurting. He had been dragged from the tattoo room to a place called the cooler, and damn, that was a good turn of phrase, because it was fucking freezing. It was a concrete cell block without a mattress pad, blanket, or pillow, just a covered bucket in the corner for shit and piss, and right now, even though his bladder was screaming for release, he couldn’t drag himself the four or five feet to the bucket.
But he was smiling. Even through the blood and the bruises and the throbbing pain, he was smiling. He had fought back, had caused the German tattooist some serious pain. Sure, maybe someone else would be along eventually to finish the tattoo, but at least Sam Miller, Portsmouth police inspector, hadn’t been completely branded like some barnyard animal.
He tried to shift again, groaned as something stabbed in his side. So, in under two days as a prisoner, what had he learned? A lot. In remote areas of the nation, Jewish refugees were at work, clearing wood, mining ore, cutting stone. Among these refugees, one Petr Wowenstein—aka Peter Wotan—had lived and worked until successfully escaping.
The refugees—how and why did they end up here?
Another intake of breath, another moan.
Yet Sam smiled, for even though he didn’t have all the answers, he had found out a lot. He wondered if ol’ Marshal Harold Hanson would be proud of his probationary inspector. After all, not only had Sam properly identified the city’s latest homicide victim, he had also uncovered a national secret.
Damn, if that wasn’t worth passing probationary status, what would be? Maybe even help him in the Party. Who knew?
He coughed.
Damn, he hurt.
Somehow he had managed to doze, and when he woke up, he stumbled over to the bucket, aimed into it. Daylight coming through a high barred window allowed him to see that his urine wasn’t stained with blood, which was a good sign. He held up his left wrist. There. A blue numeral three. A permanent reminder of the horror he and so many others were living in. Sam lowered the sleeve and replaced the cover to the bucket and sat down, grimacing at the thudding pain in his ribs.
He looked around the small cell. Something was near the bottom of the wall. He looked closer, saw a set of initials—R.S.—and a Star of David carved in the stone.
A noise, a slight thump.
Something was on the floor. He crawled over, saw it was a hunk of bread with a string wrapped around it. He undid the string, saw the bread open up, and among the smears of margarine was a note:
Otto. The Dutch businessman from Barracks Six. Be damned.
He ate the bread, wincing as his sore jaw worked, and then he tore up the note and ate that as well. The piece of string went into his bucket.
He sagged against the wall, feeling just a bit better, trying to think of what he could possibly do next.
Survive, he decided. Do what the Jews here were doing. Stay alive. Somehow get out and get back to Portsmouth and—
The door was being unlocked. Two Long’s Legionnaires came in, staring at him, wooden truncheons pulled from their belts.
One said, “Get your ass up, come with us, or we’ll beat you somethin’ awful. Got it, boy?”
Sam got up, hurting but happy he could hide his pain from these two thugs.
