Pursuit by Robert L. Fish

there he would be, with his new identity, an object of pity to the Allied troops, and with almost assured co-operation for a rapid visit to Switzerland and his money there. One thing was sure; now that Hitler had escaped the assassination plot, the war would go on for a long, long time. But Natzweiler—and Benjamin Grossman—would be out of it in short order.
    There was a sudden jolt as the train began slowing down; then it crept awhile, its engine heaving, and finally braked to a stop. There was a rattle as the door was being opened, but after being released for a mere several inches, a bar was jammed behind it, limiting its aperture. But at least air could flow in a bit, and those inside who had been silent began to revive.
    â€œWhere are we?”
    Grossman tried to get his bearings. “Frankfurt, I think.”
    A head pressed into the welcome air above him.
    â€œYes, it’s Frankfurt. I used to live in Keisterbach; it’s a suburb. We’re in the freight yard.” The man tried to twist his head to see better. “They’re unhooking the engine.”
    â€œ What! Why, for God’s sake!”
    â€œWe’ll worry about that later,” another voice said, a deep voice, and with it a large, knotted hand gripped Ben’s shoulder tightly, dragging him away from the opening with small effort. “Here! Let someone else get some air.”
    The man who had spoken, rather than taking the place he had cleared, pushed a small boy into the opening, holding him firmly by the arm to prevent his collapsing. In the shaft of early-morning daylight that slotted into the car, growing in intensity, Ben took one look at the face of the man who had pulled him from the door, and decided against objecting. This one, definitely, was a survivor! How had a man like this ever permitted the door crack to be usurped the night before when they had left Weimar? He looked at the pale face of the boy, breathing deeply, and then up to the face above him.
    â€œYour son?”
    â€œNo. Does it make any difference?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œThat’s right,” the man said flatly. The boy seemed to be reviving; the man dragged Grossman back by the shoulder a few more inches to give the boy room to sit on the floor next to the opening. As he bent over the boy his face came close to Ben’s. It was a battered face, like that of a boxer, with fine hairline cracks and scars throughout. The sharp gray eyes studied the scar along Ben’s jaw, then moved to look Ben in the eye.
    â€œWard Forty-six?”
    For a second a chill ran through Ben Grossman; then he realized the tone had been sympathetic, and he knew he had been foolish to fear this man.
    â€œYes,” he said simply. “Were you?”
    There was a raucous laugh from someone in the rear.
    â€œBrodsky? If Max Brodsky had been in Ward Forty-six, in two weeks he would have called it a health spa and charged admission!”
    â€œThat’s the reason they transferred him,” another voice said at Ben’s side. “One more month in Buchenwald and Brodsky would have owned the camp. He was getting ready to charge the SS rent when they shipped him out.”
    Ben looked at the speaker. He was a small man with extraordinarily large luminous eyes that seemed to take up a major portion of his thin expressive face. His oversized pajama uniform hung on his emaciated frame in a manner almost humorous, like the garb of a clown or a stage comic. Little spikes of hair jutted from the top of his small head; he was smiling as he spoke, showing gaps where teeth had rotted out, making his clown-like appearance more evident.
    â€œWolf, shut up,” Brodsky said without rancor. He checked the boy carefully and then looked down at Ben Grossman. Ward Forty-six, eh? He felt a sudden kinship with this blue-eyed, scarred man. In Ward Forty-six Brodsky had lost his best friend in the camp, and he somehow felt the man beside him