Cimmerian: A Novel of the Holocaust Read Free Page A

brother in.”
    “What is this? Good Party member? What is this, Helga?”
    “I have been a member since 1932,” she said defensively. “My brother was in the SS, a National Socialist, why shouldn't I?”
    “Helga, you should...” Jaochim was speechless.
    “What is done, is done,” Hans continued. “Now listen closely. The war is lost. You both must realize that. We have no Luftwaffe. Our factories, cities and armies are open to the Americans by day, the British at night. The Eastern Front is nearing collapse. In a few weeks, with the first snows, it will turn into a quagmire and both sides will be forced to stop. But once the ground hardens the Russians will be on us again and this time they will not stop short of Berlin.
    “The West is no better. The Americans and British have broken out of Normandy and have raced across France. We cannot stop them. At the rate they are going they will be over the Rhine while Peter is in training. What I am saying is: Peter will likely never get to a camp. So stop fretting.” Hans paused, perhaps recalling what Goebbels had promised in August, 1939. “This time, the war really will be over by Christmas.”
    Helga protested for a moment, not wanting to accept it. If there was to be no victory how then how could the sacrifices be justified? Peter had known his mother was a Party member for years. A mother and son often share secrets from the husband and father. Facing the truth -- that Germany was going to lose -- and lose soon, was hard for her.
    But Peter welcomed the news and his sense of relief only heightened. There was more talk from the living room, but the voices became murmurs as all the late-night conversations of his youth had been. He fell asleep as he had as small boy, safe in his own bed at home, a bed that in the bitter white cold of Russia he had given up all hope of ever seeing again.
    He was going to live.

CHAPTER TWO

    This was a remote corner of southern Poland, distant from any city, through which Peter rode. It was forlorn and forgotten, an abandoned expanse of low-lying mountains, with many streams and small, still lakes. Perhaps in bright summer he would have been struck with its beauty. But the sun had not penetrated the heavy clouds for two days and the world around him was gray and black.
    There were eleven of them. Karl, who had also been in the Wehrmacht, was in much the same situation as Peter. His brother, an SS-Hauptsturmführer, had managed to pull strings. He and Peter met eyes once again in shared apprehension. Both of them had nearly been washed out of the training for lack of aggressiveness in beating prisoners, and they had been warned to demonstrate the proper attitude at their posting, or they would be dealt with. They had all been told that several hundred SS, for many offenses, were held as prisoners in KZs.
    The other nine were basically thugs of one sort or another. There had been men like these in Russia in Peter’s company, but not so many and not all in one place. Two of them were Ukrainians who spoke atrocious German. Two others were simpletons. The rest were farm boys.
    Not a few of the group were also sadists. He had heard them talk and seen them in training. Their eyes were dull now, but they would light up when it came time to club.
    Peter’s uncle, Hans, had come to see him a few days before he left for training. He had taken him into his village for a man-to-man talk, their first.
    “Things will be very bad for you, Peter,” he told his nephew. “You are a sensitive boy. There will be no room for poetry where you are going. You must be hard. I know what you went through in Russia and I am counting on that to help you survive. I am working on your posting, but many of the labor camps are converting... to other needs.” He paused and scanned the picturesque sight of the village. He had often spoke in admiration of it. “Did you shoot partisans in Russia?” he asked finally.
    Peter would not meet his eyes as he nodded his