Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 05:02:25 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 

Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 28/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

                Chapter Twelve

      The files were clear.  For the eight most likely transports
listed, there were only two destinations:  Treblinka and Auschwitz.
One was an extermination camp.  The vast majority of any
transport would be sent straight to the gas chambers.  The other
was the largest of all the camps, a combination of concentration
and extermination.  More people would be killed there than at any
other camp, but there was also a large slave population.

      Thomas was explaining this to the gathered crew in the
mess hall.  She'd been given permission to leave sickbay as long
as she refrained from anything more than light duty.  While she
had been preparing the briefing, the senior staff was choosing
possible away team members for the search.  Over half of the
*Defiant*'s remaining crew passed as being sufficiently Aryan to
pose as SS guards in order to search for the doctor.  But most of
these didn't really know what they'd been volunteered for.  Filling
them in was Thomas's job.

      It had been decided during the staff meeting that Treblinka
would be searched first.  It was a hard decision which had brought
up a slight debate.  The chances of Bashir surviving Treblinka
were smaller, given the smaller percentage of people chosen for
labor rather than gas.  Initial selections at Auschwitz were based
more on one's fitness than simply the whim of the SS, so his
chances of becoming a prisoner were higher there.  But the
argument hinged on the matter of time.  It would take only a few
days to search the smaller camp with its few hundred inmates.
Auschwitz had tens of thousands.  If Bashir was still alive in
Treblinka, he could die in the time it took to search Auschwitz.
While the same could be said of his survival in Auschwitz, his
chances of surviving a few days were better than his chances of
surviving another week or longer.

      Because Thomas wasn't sure if there were female guards at
Treblinka, only men would be on the first away mission, though
all the 'Aryans' were attending the briefing.  Novak, with his
experience in the earlier missions, would lead the first shift of four
men.  In the afternoon, a second shift would replace them.  The
camp had been mapped out and divided into sectors which the
away team would search.  They were given uniforms and specially
modified communicators that would only translate the away
team's words into German.

      Thomas had dismissed them to change clothes, but when
they had returned, the look was still not quite right.  Not severe
enough.  They looked too nice despite the death's head badges on
their hats.  Novak and Dax helped them to look the part, while
Thomas tried to teach them how to act in the presence of Jews and
Germans alike.  That caused a certain amount of protest.  No one
wanted to actually hurt someone or to shout and insult them.  They
sided with the victims.  Some even asked why they couldn't search
the camp as prisoners, pointing out that it would be easier to
infiltrate their ranks if they were not dressed as their tormenters.
But of course, as a prisoner, one was vulnerable to any whim of an
SS officer or even a *kapo.*  It was too dangerous.  Being SS,
with all the power and freedom and guilt that entailed was the only
way to keep the away team safe.

      The briefing had lasted for nearly seven hours, well into
the night.  By morning they were ready.  Or at least, they thought
they were ready.  Thomas checked them over in the corridor just
outside the small transporter room.  Eight men, including Novak
stood at attention before her.  The first two shifts.  Their features
were familiar, but their expressions foreign.  Novak had worked
with them earlier.  They looked mean.

      Now that the briefing was over and they were about to
leave, Thomas wished she were going.  She knew more of what to
expect down there.  But she also knew enough to know that she
didn't have any idea what to expect.  Whatever she thought she
knew, it was bound to be worse.  She had tried to prepare the away
teams for the sights, the sounds, even the smells they would
encounter.  But there was no way she could really do that.  She'd
never smelled burning, rotting flesh or seen dead bodies stacked
like cord wood with her own eyes.  She'd seen pictures, of course,
read descriptions.  But it would never truly prepare someone for
the real thing, just as all her research had not sufficiently prepared
her for the ghetto.  She had forgotten most of that particular
mission, but the scenes of children in the streets begging for food
next to the dying or the dead still remained.

      She only hoped they would all keep a tight check on their
emotions.  They were supposed to be SS officers.  They were
supposed to be used to such things.  It would be difficult for them
all.


      Sisko waited inside the transporter room with Chief
O'Brien.  The door opened and the first away team entered.
Novak stepped onto the pad first.  He checked his data PADD once
more and then straightened the jacket of his uniform.  He was the
only one who wouldn't be carrying one of the modified
communicators.  He could speak the language himself, and his
comm badge wouldn't translate anything.  He glanced over to
Thomas, who had entered with the other away team members.
"Worse than the ghetto?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

      Thomas was standing in at-ease position, with her hands
behind her back.  "Much worse."

      Sisko took a step toward him, searching for the appropriate
encouraging words.  He couldn't find any.  "Good luck,
Lieutenant."

      "Thank you, sir."  He turned his head toward O'Brien who
was now working the transporter controls.  "Ready when you are,
Chief."

      "They all seem to be still at roll call," O'Brien reported,
checking the sensors.  "All in a group."

      "Good," commented Thomas, "we can watch them as they
disperse."  Turning to Novak she reminded him not to get too
close to the assembly grounds.  "You'd be too conspicuous.  Hang
back and let them pass you.  And remember," she said for the
whole way team, "he probably won't look the same.  It's been five
weeks.  He'll be hard to recognize.  His head was probably shaved
when he arrived.  He'll be thin.  His height would be a good
giveaway, as would his accent."

      Novak nodded and got the okay signal from O'Brien.  He
checked his phaser's charge, pocketed it and said, "Energize."  He
dematerialized and then Lieutenant Barker stepped up to take his
place.  The next two officers prepared themselves.  It was 0830,
0630 on the surface below.


      It was the smell that woke him, more than anything else.  It
was awful, like the latrines only worse.  Mixed with the smell of
excrement and waste was one of sickness and death.  It was
overpowering.  And it was directly under his nose.  He was laying
on his stomach on something soft--"soft" being a relative term.  It
was a mattress of straw.  Wisps of it poked him in the chest.   Still,
it was better than bare wood.  For that, he didn't mind the cold.
Only a light blanket covered his back.  He could see the new,
nearly white bandage that bound his left shoulder.  He couldn't
move his arm.  He felt the wood beneath it though.  His wrist was
tied to it, leaving his hand facing palm-up.  It ached, but only in a
dull way, not sharp as it was when he had to work.  Light was
beginning to filter into the building, and he started to remember
where he was.

      The hospital.  Despite the smell, he felt relieved.  It was
apparently already morning, but he hadn't been awakened for roll
call.  The room around him was quiet, with the exception of the
moans and delusions of the sick.  No one was yelling, no one was
beating anyone else.  From his position, he could only see another
set of beds, stacked one on top of the other, and the patients they
contained.  He tried to sit up, but found he didn't have the
strength.  It had been getting harder to move every day since the
incident.  His clinical sense told him it was because he wasn't
eating enough.  But then, he would argue, no one can eat enough
here.  Better to let someone who might survive have the food.

      "*Widze, ze pan sie obudzil.*"  It was a loud voice near
his ear but behind him.  It almost sounded cheerful.  A body
moved toward him.  It bent down so that the face was visible.
"*Wyleczylismy twoja infekcje tak jak on nam powiedzial.
Obawiam sie, ze tylko moglismy oczyscic pana obrazenia i je
obandarzowac.*"

      Bashir tried to speak, but his voice didn't work.  "I don't
understand," he whispered.

      The doctor looked surprised and backed away a few inches.
"*Czy on mowil po Angielsku?*"  He said it with some
amusement.  It was obvious that he knew the answer.  Someone
replied anyway, though Julian could not see who it was.

      "*Moze on mowil po Holendersku."

      The doctor chuckled.  "*Nie, nie po Holendersku,*" he
said.  Then his tone became more even.  "On jest Anglikiem.  Czy
ktos tu mowi po Angielsku?*"

      There was a murmur in the room and Bashir became aware
of more voices beyond the moaning patients.  The doctor moved
back into his direct line of sight.  "*Sprechen Sie deutsch?*"

      Bashir wished people would stop asking him that.  He did
not speak German.  "No," he whispered.  He didn't feel like
answering questions.  He felt like sleeping, now that he could.  He
hoped the doctor didn't speak French.

      "*Przynies mu cos do jedzenia,*" the doctor said.  He
shook his head and moved away.

      Bashir closed his eyes again, hoping for sleep, but it didn't
come.  Now that he was aware of it, the noise in the room was just
too loud, the smell too awful.  Another man approached the bed.
He had a small crust of bread with him.  Julian didn't move to take
it.  He couldn't.  His position was too awkward, and there was
someone else beside him, crowding him on the small bed.

      The new person, perhaps another doctor or only an orderly
of sorts, untied Bashir's hand and helped him to turn.  He was
careful to keep Bashir's left arm perfectly still despite the
movement.  Once he was on his side, Bashir surprised the man by
sitting up on his own.  The man smiled and handed the bread to
Bashir.  Julian looked at it numbly for a minute or so, but when the
man didn't give up and move away, he took the bread.  It wasn't
as good as the bread that Max brought back to the barracks
occasionally, but he hadn't eaten since the watery midday meal the
day before.  His stomach was glad for it.

      The man moved on to other patients, and Bashir sat quietly
eating his bread and watching the room around him.  The doctors--
there were several that he could see--were busy.  It was a long
building he was in, filled with beds.  Each bed held two men, most
of them in very bad health.  Bashir thought he knew why.
Everyone was afraid of the hospital.  The selections were too
frequent.  No one came unless they were desperate.  The man
beside him groaned, and Bashir looked back at him.  His eyes were
open and he stared, unseeing, at the bunk above him. His jaw was
clenched tight as were his fists which tugged spasmodically at the
thin blanket that had covered them both.  His lips mumbled
something incomprehensible.  He shivered, but when Bashir
touched his forehead, it was hot.

      Bashir folded the blanket back over the man and tucked it
around his arms and legs to keep him warm.  The man's shivering
became less violent, but little else changed.  Bashir took his pulse,
trying not to lose count.  It wasn't easy.  His mind was still cloudy,
and the man kept tensing up.  He didn't seem to be aware of the
intrusion though.  His pulse was high, too high, and Bashir felt that
he would die soon.  He tried to imagine the correct diagnosis, but
there were so many things that could have caused the fever.  Cold,
exhaustion, exposure, malnutrition, lice, rats, something in their
rations.  It could be anything.  But without the proper medicines,
the proper sanitation, the man would die.  And if he didn't, the SS
doctors would probably load him on the truck the next time they
came.

      Julian closed his eyes and tried to imagine his Infirmary
back on the station.  He was surprised by how distant it seemed,
like something buried in the past.  But slowly the image became
clear to him.  The colored displays on black surfaces, the gray
upholstery of the biobeds, his shelves with row upon row of
medicines, cabinets with instruments.  He could remember every
name, every use for each of them.  And he thought about how
much he could do here with just an emergency medical kit.

      Bashir began to shiver himself, from the cold in the room.
He was wearing pants, but he didn't know where his shirt and coat
had been taken.  Still, he felt the other man needed the blanket
more so he left it where it was.  There was nothing else he could
do for the man.  There was nothing else to give him.  Two bunks
down, a young man, younger than Bashir would have thought
possible in this place, was trying to wrap a bandage around his
own foot.  With effort, Julian stood and, using the bunks to support
him, he went to the boy.  "I can help," he whispered, not caring
that the boy wouldn't understand.

      The boy stopped his wrapping and looked up at Bashir.  He
seemed confused but he moved back toward the head of the bed so
that Bashir could sit down.  Julian took hold of the boy's ankle and
gently set it on his own thigh.  He used his left hand to unwrap
what the boy had done, gripping the flimsy cloth weakly between
two of his crooked fingers while he lifted the foot with his other
hand.

      The boy's foot was bad, swollen and colored red and black.
It had been rubbed raw by the wooden clogs he had been forced to
wear, and his toes were white.   Julian placed it back on his thigh
and pointed to the boy's toes.  Then he wiggled his fingers.  The
boy nodded, scowling from the pain.  But only his big toe moved.
The others were frozen.  The thin bandage wouldn't do much
good, but at least it would add a little insulation.  Julian turned
further toward the boy, until his knee rested beneath the boy's
calf.  His foot was raised then and didn't need to be held.  Julian
used his good hand to wrap the cloth around the swollen foot.

      The man who had given him bread came around toward the
bunk again and stopped when he saw Bashir sitting with the boy.
He called the doctor over.  "*Zobaczcie, co on robi.*"

      The doctor paused and watched for a few moments.  Bashir
felt his stare but ignored it.  He focused his attention on the boy
and the bandage. "*On jest lekarzem,*" the doctor stated quietly
behind him, "*albo pielegniarem.*"  The doctor waited for him to
finish with the boy and then touched his shoulder.

      Bashir finished tying off the bandage, using one side of his
left hand to hold it in place.  He set the boy's foot back on the bed
and turned to look at the doctor.

      "*Sind Sie Arzt?*" the doctor asked, speaking slowly in
German.

      Bashir was still tired and didn't want to try and understand.

      The other man tried again.  "*Doktor?*"

      Bashir nodded slightly.  "I was a doctor," he whispered.

      The doctor nodded and walked away.  When he returned,
he was carrying Bashir's shirt and striped coat.  He helped Bashir
to stand and carefully slipped the shirt's sleeve around Bashir's
arm.  Bashir started to button the shirt, but the doctor did it for
him.  He did the same with his coat.  Then he left again, returning
with a wad of cloth.  He unwound it, tied two ends together and
slipped the loop over Bashir's head. Then he spread the rest of the
cloth out and placed Bashir's hand inside it.  He made a motion
with his hand that Bashir should follow him.

      Bashir was still weak, but he followed the doctor.  He was
glad to have his clothes again even though he could feel the lice
that infested them.  He was almost warm with the coat.  And for
the first time in weeks he was able to relax the muscles in his left
arm, cradled as it was by the sling.  The doctor led him outside and
to another building.  There was water there and he washed
Bashir's good hand.  Then he took him to another room.  There
was a line waiting there.  At least twenty men, each with minor
wounds, stood or sat against the wall.  The doctor set up two chairs
and told the first man to come and sit.  He put Bashir in the second
chair.

      There was one other person in the room, uninjured, and
Bashir surmised that he was part of the staff.  "*Pomorz mu," the
doctor said, pointing to Bashir.  "*On jest lekarzem, ale ma tylko
jedna rake.*"  The other man nodded and the doctor left the room.
He stopped just outside the door.  "*I nie mowi po Polsku.*"


      Novak emerged from the empty building and gazed
around.  He wrinkled his nose, resisting the urge to cover his face
with the handkerchief that was in one of his pockets.  The ghetto
had been bad, foul-smelling for lack of sanitation.  This place had
a sickeningly sweet smell, and the sky was filled with smoke.
Novak knew what was burning, and he knew Bashir could be a
part of it.  More likely, he was killed weeks ago and burned in the
ovens then.  He put that out of his mind and took up a place near
the electrified gate.  The roll call was breaking up, and the
inmates were coming to work.  One of the Ukrainian guards saw
him and waved.  Novak forced a wave back and stood his ground.

      A group of perhaps thirty men, all with gaunt faces, were
being herded quickly in his direction.  Some were pulling a small
cart full of axes.  Novak tried to get a good look at each of the
men's faces as they passed.  Most did not bother to meet his gaze.
A courageous few did, lifting their hate-filled eyes for a few
seconds to show their defiance.  He looked for height.  The doctor
was around two meters tall.  A few of the men reached nearly that
height, but their faces were wrong, their eyes not the right color.
The SS guard looked at him askance, but Novak turned his face
toward the forest that lay beyond the gate.  The whole group
passed him and he turned back into the camp.  Bashir wasn't with
them.


      Barker waited until the other SS officer left and then
entered the building.  A few of the workers looked up from the
mounds of clothing and luggage they were sorting.  "Back to
work!" he yelled, trying to sound forceful.  His stomach was still
lurching from the stench of the smoke that hung over the camp
like a blanket.  He could even smell it inside.  Next time, if there
was a next time, he'd ask the nurses for something to calm his
stomach.  Breathing people just didn't seem to sit well.

      The workers went back to their work as ordered, though he
did notice a few sideways glances and shrugging shoulders.  He
walked slowly starting down one side of the room, discounting the
women and looking closely at the men.  Each one stiffened as he
walked past.  He rested his hand on his gun just for good measure.
If they were afraid of him, they wouldn't ask questions.

      He was amazed by the piles.  There seemed to be an
endless supply of clothes, toothbrushes, scissors, shoes,
photographs, and other things.  Barker thought that each shirt or
dress must have been a person, gone now into that smoke.  His
stomach lurched again, garnering him a few more looks and a
smirk or two.  He ignored them, moving on.  He had crossed half
of the room, and none of the workers looked familiar.


To Be Continued....



-- 
--Gabrielle
I'd much rather be writing!

http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/trek/    The Edge of the Frontier
http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/doyle/   This Side of the Nether
Blog: http://www.gabriellewrites.blogspot.com

--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Awards Tech Support

http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/

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