Pursuit by Robert L. Fish Page A

might possibly have been sent him as a replacement. “Are you all right? Do you want to get back to the door?”
    â€œNo, I’m all right.”
    Brodsky nodded and raised his deep voice. “Let’s have someone here from the rear!” His hand rested on Grossman’s shoulder; somehow there was something companionable about the slight pressure. “All right! Let him through!”
    There was a rough shifting of bodies and an old man was thrust to the front. Brodsky pulled the boy slightly to one side, still allowing him breathing space, and tucked the old man’s head near the opening. The old man gasped in thankful relief and nestled on the floor, sniffing the fresh air like a dog at a rat hole. There was a restless shifting of bodies. Someone said querulously, “How much longer are we going to be kept here?”
    As if in answer to his question, there was the sound of boots crunching on cinders and two SS officers appeared in the slot of light. Brodsky held up his hand for silence but few could see him. He raised his voice in a bellow.
    â€œShut up! Shut up!” And when his roar was met by startled silence he added more quietly, “Let’s hear what they’re saying.”
    The two officers on the track made no attempt to lower their voices, nor did they even glance at the column of anxious eyes staring at them from the narrow slit.
    â€œâ€¦ evacuated,” one was saying.
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œNatzweiler, I said. Evacuated.”
    â€œI heard what you said! When?”
    â€œTwo days ago.” The speaker sounded bitter. “You’d think they would know these things before they send out a string of cars, wouldn’t you? You would think at least they might check. Good God! Nancy was cleared out a week ago, they knew that, didn’t they?” He stared at the line of boxcars as if they represented a personal affront to him and the papers in his hand. “Cars from six camps, some of them three days on the road, over eight hundred men, and what do we do with them?”
    Inside the boxcar voices were breaking out in the darkness.
    â€œWhat’s going on? Who are you listening to? What are they saying? Anything about where we’re going? Tell them to open the door more, we need air in here for God’s sake—!”
    They were answered by a variety of languages from those near the slot.
    â€œShut up! Keep quiet!” Ears replaced eyes at the slot to catch the words more clearly.
    â€œâ€¦ good question. What do we do with this lot? Shoot them?”
    â€œWithout orders? I can imagine the result.” The officer sounded disgusted.
    The second officer shrugged. “Why not send them back where they came from?”
    â€œSix camps in six different places? Still, that’s what we ought to do.” The bitterness had returned to the officer’s voice. “Serve them right for not checking before they ship them out. They’re the ones at fault, but they’d be sure to manage to blame us.” There was a rustling of paper as the man consulted a list. “Here. We’ll shift them to Celle. To the Bergen-Belsen camp. I’ll get in touch with them and say those were the orders. They won’t know the difference, things are so fouled up these days.” The two men started to walk back down the track.
    Grossman peered up at the shadowy figure of Brodsky between him and the door. “What was it? What did they say?”
    Brodsky raised his voice so everyone in the car could hear.
    â€œTwo SS, apparently discussing where we’re going. It seems we were headed for a place called Natzweiler, but Natzweiler was evacuated a few days ago. I guess the Allies are getting too close for our friends’ comfort.” There was a weak attempt at a cheer from someone, instantly put down by the man’s neighbors.
    Grossman felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. This was certainly no part of his