edged winds that were already blowing across the land, a storm that would batter his foolish and improvident brethren…
The thing of dirty rags and swollen flesh was the father of the angel in the shop’s window. Marte Helle’s father.
“What a fool,” muttered Pavli’s dark companion. His voice held the perfect contempt of one who’d steeled his heart for survival, despising those who stayed human and fated for death. “He’s in for it now.”
The broken man had achieved freedom of a sort: the gate had been opened long enough for the two guards to drag him out, his heels inscribing two lines in the mud. The guards disappeared with him into the dark ranks of trees.
Pavli whispered from the corner of his mouth. “Will they shoot him?”
“No -” The other shook his head. “They won’t waste a bullet on him. One of them can just stand on his throat until he’s quiet.”
The guards came back a little while later, by themselves, one of them smoking a cigarette, the other wiping his hands with a cloth he tucked back into the pocket of his uniform jacket.
Some of the elders and the women with small children had sat down on the ground. The mothers kept the restless children close to themselves, hushing them when they cried, rocking the infants in their arms and shielding their pink faces from the sun.
It was close to noon when the car arrived, a high-fendered cabriolet from the Bayerische Motoren Werke, the whine of its supercharger cutting through the distance before it could be seen. The guards stiffened to attention, a couple of them hurriedly fastening the tight collars of their uniforms, as the driver held the door open for his passenger.
The Scharfuhrer, the sergeant in charge of the guards, extended his arm in salute. “All shipments of the subject population have arrived and been accounted for, Herr Doktor Ritter.”
The false gypsy hissed in alarm. “It’s him! ” He clutched his fingers tighter on Pavli’s arm. “He was there, at Auschwitz!” That was the other name, the German one, for the little Silesian village and the camp from which the fellow had been returned. “In Block Ten -”
There wasn’t time to ask what Block Ten was. The officer – Pavli could see the insignia of a Hauptsturmfuhrer SS on the man’s uniform – acknowledged the guard’s salute with a nod, as he pulled the gloves from his hands. His gaze moved across the crowd behind the fence.
“Line the males up.” The gate swung open to admit the officer. He pointed to the open space a few yards away. “Right there will do nicely.”
The Scharfuhrer presented the tally sheet to the officer. “You will find the group to be short one subject, sir. A death occurred during transport; the man was not well.”
“Oh?” The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow. He smiled coldly at the guard. “During transport, you say? How unfortunate. What was done with the subject, upon your learning of his demise?”
“The body was removed -”
“But not yet buried? Good.” The officer gestured with a flick of his hand. “Have it brought inside. We shall waste nothing here. Every one of our guests, breathing or not, is of value.”
They made no effort to lower their voices, to keep the Lazarenes from overhearing. Pavli let himself be herded forward with the other men. The guards kept their rifles slung behind their shoulders as they shoved the group into a rough straight line.
Pavli could see the officer better now. He stood only a few feet away, running a finger across the names on the tally sheet. Shorter than all but one of the guards, with eyes of watery blue socketed in finely wrinkled skin. He had the thin lips of an unloved woman. He didn’t seem to Pavli like a doctor, but these things were hard to tell anymore. In this world, he had already learned that all words were arbitrary; they could easily mean the opposite of what they had meant the day before.
The officer and the Scharfuhrer started at the left end of the line. “Your arm, bitte.” Before the Lazarene could respond, the Scharfuhrer had grabbed the man’s forearm, twisting his palm upward. The tight double row of buttons were torn open, exposing the white skin of the Lazarene’s wrist.
“Ah…” The officer breathed a connoisseur’s sigh of appreciation as he looked at the blue-inked tattoo that ran toward the inside crook of the elbow. He reached out a forefinger and traced the length of the representation of Christ’s stigmata. “A fine specimen.” To Pavli, watching from the corner of his eye a few places farther down the line, the officer did seem like a doctor now, examining an interesting skin condition. “Open your shirt.”
The Scharfuhrer let the Lazarene male undo the buttons himself. Herr Doktor Ritter pushed the cloth aside with one hand. The Lazarene drew in a sharp, involuntary breath as the officer’s fingertips brushed the tattoo running vertically across the ribs.
“Perfect.” Ritter stepped in front of the next in line, who’d already had his shirt pulled open by the Scharfuhrer. He gave a cursory glance to the traditional Lazarene marking, then moved on.
When it was Pavli’s turn, the officer’s face darkened into a scowl. “What is this individual doing here? He’s not Lazarene!”
It was the first time he’d ever heard the word spoken by someone not of his blood. He wondered what other secrets were known by this man who was somehow both a doctor and an SS officer.
The Scharfuhrer looked confused. “I don’t understand, sir…”
“His arm, idiot. Look at his arm!” Ritter grabbed Pavli’s forearm, yanking it up to the sergeant’s baffled inspection.
The white skin, from the delicate veins at the bend of the wrist, up to the elbow, was completely unmarked. There was no tattoo of the Savior’s holy wounds.
“Your instructions were to bring only the members of the Lazarene Community here.” Ritter’s cold voice lashed the other man. “This individual is obviously old enough to have been received his initiation into their faith, yet he does not bear the ritual markings.”
“No, sir…” The Scharfuhrer mumbled his response.
“Therefore, he cannot be Lazarene, can he?” Ritter slapped the rolled-up tally sheet against his palm in irritation. “I did not anticipate errors cropping up quite so soon. But I suppose it’s inevitable.” He glanced at Pavli, then back to the sergeant. “I suppose it was his eyes that misled you. Well, he’ll have to be taken care of,” said Ritter in a lower voice. “You and your men seem capable of that, at least. You can mark it down as another loss in transport…”
A shock of panic hit Pavli, freezing him where he stood. He could see, as though it were happening to someone else, the two guards dragging him out the gate, as they had done with the bandage-swathed broken man, and out to the distant trees. From which they would return by themselves, without him.
Another voice spoke up. “Excuse me, mein Herr…”
The Scharfuhrer turned on his heel, face furious. “Silence!” He raised his hand to strike the Lazarene who had shown such daring.
Matthi, a few places farther down the line, ignored the Scharfuhrer. He looked straight at the SS officer. “But the boy is Lazarene, sir. He is my brother -” His head snapped to one side as the back of the sergeant’s gloved hand hit his jaw.
Another blow was stopped by Ritter grabbing the Scharfuhrer ’s arm. “Just a moment.” He stepped in front of Matthi. “Your brother? Why hasn’t he been given the markings?”
Though he met Ritter’s gaze without flinching, Matthi hesitated a moment. “He has not been initiated into the Lazarene faith at all. The elders and I thought it best not to do so.”
“Oh?” One of Ritter’s eyebrows lifted. “Why is that?”
Another heartbeat of silence. “What my brother does not know, he cannot be forced to tell.”
That brought a grim half-smile to Ritter’s face. “How clever of you. I had heard rumors that the Lazarenes were aware of my interest in them – but this is the first confirmation I’ve had.”
“We knew nothing like that. But these are times of war. Best to be cautious.”
“Such wisdom.” Ritter nodded in appreciation. “Perhaps that alone explains the survival of your people. But as of now, there is no war for the Lazarenes.” He took a step backward, raising his voice to address the line of males and the huddled group of women and children a few yards away. “You are all under the protection of the Ahnenerbe, the department of research into ancestral heritage of the Reich’s Schutzstaffel. You will come to no harm, provided, of course, that you remain cooperative and follow all orders, precisely as they are given to you.” He
