Pursuit by Robert L. Fish Page B

precious scheme! Why hadn’t he considered the possibility that the camp might be evacuated before he reached there? Still, it didn’t neccessarily mean that all was lost—
    â€œWhat else did they say?”
    â€œSomething about a camp called Bergen-Belsen, near Celle.” Brodsky raised his voice. “Who knows anything about a camp called Bergen-Belsen?”
    No one answered. Crouched in his little niche, Grossman felt himself getting physically ill. Bergen-Belsen! A Krankenlager —a sick camp! A camp where they send people to die. No gas chambers and the ovens are a joke. They bury their dead in huge pits and why not? There are no gas burns on them, no gunshot wounds, except for those the guards shoot for entertainment. The vast majority die of natural causes, like typhus or dysentery or starvation. Nothing for the SS to be ashamed of should the Allies uncover the pits. Bergen-Belsen! A hellhole of the worst sort, and I’ve sentenced myself to that! Idiot! Imbecile! Fool! Better the Strasbourg Group. Better even the chances of a war-crimes trial! Better anything than Belsenlager!
    There was a sudden jar as a new engine was coupled onto the string of cars. There was a harsh rasp as the bar that had been allowing the slot to furnish at least a little air was suddenly withdrawn. The door slammed shut; then there was the sound of a spike being hammered into the hasp, locking them in. The cars began to move, gradually picking up speed until once more they were bumping and jostling about, and the stifling heat began to build up, together with the overpowering stench. Men began to faint, taking others down with them; those above took advantage of the additional room to sit on the fallen, crushing them with their weight. Grossman sensed rather than saw the large body of Max Brodsky braced against the side of the car, forming a shelter for him, the boy, and the old man against the pressure of the others in the car. He heard Brodsky’s voice.
    â€œWe’ve come through other camps, we’ll come through this one, too.” There was grim promise in the deep voice. “Next year in Jerusalem …”
    More likely next year in hell, Grossman thought. He closed his eyes and listened to the clack of the wheels over the rail joints. Bergen, they said. Ber-gen, Bel-sen, ber-gen, bel-sen, bergen, belsen, bergen belsen, bergen belsen, bergenbelsen, bergenbelsen, bergenbelsen bergenbelsenbergenbelsenbergenbelsen …
    God!
    They arrived in Celle in midafternoon. There was a hammering on the door, the same deafening clangor they had heard before, a muffled cry of Zuruckbehalten! Zuruckbehalten! from outside. The door was quickly run back. Those inside near the door fought to keep their balance, gulping the sweet air, staring blindly outside, made sightless by the sudden light, fighting the pressure from behind. The old man, dead many hours, tilted forward slowly into the door opening and toppled to the tracks. The chatter of a machine gun responded instantly, making the scrawny body jerk in almost life-like imitation. The guard who had fired the gun swept the muzzle upward, fanning it across the opening threateningly. An officer walked quickly down the line, calling out:
    â€œ Heraus kommen! Heratts kommen! Langsam! Slowly! Get down! Fall in line!”
    They climbed down stiffly, those who were still alive, and lined up in ragged formation alongside the track, looking down the line and seeing other men climb down from similar cars. The last ones to reach the door of their particular car were ordered to go back and drag the dead bodies to the opening, where other prisoners were assigned to handle them. The bodies were directed to be taken across several tracks and piled up beside a fence that separated the freight yard from the town of Celle. From Grossman’s car eighteen bodies were taken in addition to the old man; the boy, he saw, was among them. In the night someone had pushed the