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 made a gesture of welcome, a sweep of one hand that was almost a bow. “You should consider yourselves to be guests, not only of me, but also Reichsfuhrer SS Himmler and even the Fuhrer himself. I apologize for the inconvenience and discomfort you may have suffered thus far. But I promise that all efforts will be undertaken to make sure that your time spent here will be more congenial.”
Pavli’s companion hazarded a mutter under his breath. “Lying son of a bitch…”
“Take them inside.” Ritter handed the tally sheet back to the Scharfuhrer. “I’ll inspect the rest of the males later.”
The guards moved the Lazarenes in two groups, the men still separated from the women and small children. Pavli tramped along in the middle, aware of his brother’s presence ahead of him.
“There is your new home.” One of the guards pointed ahead of the group. “As Herr Doktor Ritter said -” There was a sour note of sarcasm in the guard’s voice. “Welcome.”
Pavli looked past the shoulders of the other Lazarene men, and saw a four-story building, white with green shutters. It looked like a hospital, a tuberculosis sanitarium or perhaps an asylum for the insane. New-looking iron bars had been welded into place over the windows.
His companion, the false gypsy, was unimpressed. “They can make anything look wonderful,” he whispered. “If they want to.”
Inside the building, there was an odor of carbolic acid. Standing in the entrance hallway with the others, Pavli caught glimpses through partly opened doors, of rooms whose walls and floors were covered with the same pale green tiles, with a tarnished brass drain plate set in the center. Other rooms were filled with wicker-backed wheelchairs, piled into rusting mountains with broken gurney carts.
“Move along.” The guards jostled against the rear of the crowd. “Keep going.”
The interior grew dimmer, farther removed from daylight, as they shuffled down a central corridor. Electric lights had been strung along the ceiling, with black cables snaking overhead. The lights flickered and buzzed; somewhere outside, a petrol-fueled generator chugged steadily. In the cavernous spaces, echoing against the tiled walls, came the distant voices of the women and children, taken to a separate wing of the building.
“Stop here.”
The Scharfuhrer had to shout to be heard over the voices of the Lazarene men; they had been put sufficiently at ease by the SS doctor’s assurances to have begun talking among themselves, even joking and laughing.
This room smelled of damp and soap. Along the concrete walls, near the ceiling, were patches of black mold.
“You are to undress,” ordered the Scharfuhrer. “Remove all articles of clothing, fold them neatly, then place them on top of your shoes or boots against the wall. Remember where you place your own things – thievery will not be tolerated…”
He didn’t hear the rest of the words being barked at the group. His attention was distracted by the false gypsy, the man of warnings and whispers. Pavli looked to his side and saw the fellow panting rapidly, face drained white and eyes widened in sudden fear.
“… after washing thoroughly, you will line up here, at this spot, for application of the delousing compound…”
The false gypsy screamed.
“No!” He propelled himself shoulder-first against the man at his other side, scrabbling with a terrified animal’s clawed fingers to find a way through the press of bodies around him. “He’s lying, they’re all lying -” His words were lost in the rising pitch of his cry.
The crowd of Lazarenes parted, each pushing to get away from the contagion of the fellow’s madness. A hubbub of mounting voices battered against the tile and concrete. Pavli tried to grab the fellow’s arm, to pull him back and clap a hand over his mouth, but he had already broken through. He stumbled onto his knees, then scrambled upright, throwing himself toward the room’s open doorway.
The other guards caught him, pinioning his arms and wrestling him clear of the floor. His legs kicked furiously.
“ They’re lying! ” He was no match against the guards, a bear hug squeezing the breath from his lungs. “The showers!” He dug his fingernails into the uniformed sleeves wrapped around his abdomen. “That’s… how they do it! The showers… and the gas…”